


Are you there, God? It's me, Brendon

by scoradh



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1329343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boarding school AU which has nothing to do with the Judy Blume novel at all. Brendon agrees to try boarding school when the bullying at his current school becomes too much to handle - but dealing with Ryan Ross might just be worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are you there, God? It's me, Brendon

**Author's Note:**

> Betas: murklins and oddishly (livejournal)  
> TW: bullying, elements of religion-bashing

When Brendon came home with a bloody nose for the third time that week, his mother didn't even ask. She just sighed and said, "Oh, dear." The _not again_ was implied.  
  
Brendon steeled himself against apologising. He'd done that at the beginning, too often. 'Yeah, I just walked into a branch. Mrs Wilkes really needs to trim her hedges. Sorry my shirt got dirty.' Every phone-booth - every lamp-post, bush, and tree in the neighbourhood was unfairly implicated in his injuries. Once, when his t-shirt was more red than white, he even stopped at the 7-Eleven on the corner to buy some washing powder. He'd handed it over to his mother with jam-like blood sliding over his lip. Thinking back, that was probably when she stopped believing inanimate objects had it in for him.  
  
Lately he'd only bought black shirts, so the stains wouldn't show. That brought on a different slew of questions. Was he turning into a 'goth', was he hanging out with different people? - with the usual implication that 'different' meant 'wrong'. Brendon longed to say he didn't hang out with _any_ people - they wouldn't hang out with him - but on balance,that would only make him look more like a loser. He let them think he might be turning away from Jesus. Jesus didn't care about the colour of his shirts - or if he was getting beaten to a pulp for no particular reason, apparently.  
  
"Do you need some ice?" asked Mrs Urie.  
  
Brendon didn't answer for a minute. He was busy prodding his nose, deciding if it was just swollen or if they'd actually broken it this time. He'd read somewhere that if you broke a bone, you'd _know_ it. All he knew right now was that it hurt like hell.   
  
"Yeah," he said, then, belatedly, "thanks, Mom."  
  
Mrs Urie sighed again. She was a champion sigher. Her personal interpretation of God's ordained method of raising children included never raising her voice towards them. Brendon often wished she would just scream.  
  
Brendon sniffed. A drop of blood fell on the place setting with its ugly decorative roses. Brendon rubbed his hand under his nose and got a smear of red for his troubles. He didn't dare mop it up with a dish-cloth, icy-white and pristine as they were. He settled for wiping the blot with his finger and sucking it clean. It tasted sharp and sour. Familiar.  
  
"Tip your head forward," Mrs Urie ordered. Brendon hissed as the ice-pack chilled the back of his neck. "Are you pinching your nose?"  
  
"Yeth," said Brendon.   
  
"Good," said Mrs Urie. As blasé as if they'd done this a hundred times (close enough); as concerned as if it were the first (not by a long shot). "I just finished making soup; do you want some?"  
  
"Won't it ruin my dinner?"   
  
"No," said Mrs Urie. "I'll put it back an hour."   
  
Although Brendon's brothers and sisters often dropped in, meals were no longer the tactical manoeuvre they once had been. Mrs Urie could afford to play fast and loose with schedules these days, now there was only Brendon to worry about - Brendon who never had friends to visit or after-school activities to attend.  
  
By the time the soup was hot and the toast ready, Brendon's nose had stopped bleeding. The sickly taste of blood coated his tongue, and he hastily gulped down half a glass of milk to wash it away. His mother sat down opposite him with a soup-bowl of her own. That was never a good sign; Mrs Urie believed food smoothed over any rough patches she felt herself required to create. There'd been cupcakes, trays and trays of them, on the day she told his sister she couldn't marry a Roman Catholic.   
  
Mrs Urie didn't go straight for the kill. She made small talk about the meal - "Hot enough?" "Do you want more toast?" - and the weather, which was sunny. It rarely wasn't. She waited until Brendon's soup was half-drunk before she said, off-hand, "So, what happened this time?"  
  
Brendon's fingers tightened reflexively as he fought down a lie. He'd told so many lies already, he was probably going to hell with all the Buddhists.   
  
"I got beat up by the guys from the football team." Every world felt carved from his throat with knives. "Same ones as usual."  
  
"Didn't you ignore them, like I said?"  
  
Brendon nodded, trying not to feel angry. His mother's advice was as good as anyone's, and just as useless. "I kept my head down and didn't say anything. They called me some names." He took a deep breath, editing the content of their taunts for a strictly R for Religious audience. That he was called a cocksucker when he'd never so much as kissed anyone, girl _or_ boy, seemed monstrously unfair. He'd tried to point that out in the beginning, but the gibes were merely a formality - a gateway to the real business they had with Brendon, a losing bargain between his face and their fists. "I walked on, they grabbed me, a little while later I came home and had soup."  
  
"Are you finished?" Mrs Urie eyed his bowl. Brendon slurped up the last spoonful and nodded. Mrs Urie's eyes strayed to his neck. She made no move to collect the dishes. "You have bruises," she cleared her throat, "under your chin."  
  
"Oh, yeah," said Brendon, "I tried to get away, which they didn't appreciate. It's easier to punch someone who can't breathe, did you know that?"  
  
" _Brendon_ ," said Mrs Urie, her voice clotted. It took Brendon a minute to realise it was with tears.   
  
"It's okay," said Brendon. He reached across the table and tucked his fingers under hers. She squeezed his hand, rubbing her thumb across the torn skin of his knuckles.   
  
"I just don't understand," she said. "We all come in for some - ignorance, from those who don't know our ways. But this blind, endless hatred - and you keep saying you didn't do anything to provoke it."  
  
"But I did," said Brendon. "I was born."  
  
"That can't be the reason. It makes no sense."  
  
"I forgot how that's a requirement for life," snapped Brendon. His mother tensed with hurt. "I'm different, that's all. Not just being Mormon - it's everything. My hair, my glasses, the way I talk. And if it wasn't me, it'd be someone else. That's how the world works."  
  
"God's mercy is infinite," said Mrs Urie quietly.  
  
"Yeah, but Chuck Lawrence's isn't," said Brendon.  
  
Mrs Urie did something to his hand then, a gesture in between a caress and a shake. Then she released it and stood up. Brendon could _see_ the way she peeled the incident from the surface of her mind. "Do you have homework?"  
  
"Yup," said Brendon. Every day before lunch, he requested extra credit assignments from the teacher. Even on Thursdays, when it was geometry that period. It kept him out of sight for a vital few minutes and also meant he could get a library pass. Brendon hadn't eaten in the cafeteria for months. He survived on carrot sticks he snuck between the pages of an encyclopaedia, while the pinch-mouthed librarian glared at him. But Brendon could ignore her easily; nothing ever came of Miss Schuler's glares.  
  
As he went upstairs, he heard his mother get on the phone. She greeted his brother as he closed his bedroom door, shutting out the world.   
  
+++  
  
In fact, dinner was delayed for three hours. Brendon only peripherally noted the time passing. He wrote a draft for his required essay on World War Two - he was doing the Battle of Arnhem, if only because everyone else would pick Pearl Harbour. It wasn't due till next week. Mr Kusak's face had a dusting of impatience when he said Brendon wasn't going to skip a grade, no matter how many extra book reports he turned in. There was nothing else to do - even Brendon wasn't desperate enough to work ahead in geometry.   
  
His father's booming voice, calling him to dinner, startled him badly. When Brendon arrived in the kitchen, it was to see his brother Jacob already there. The bruises were just starting to curdle Brendon's muscles. He absently rubbed his side as he took his place beside Jacob, who cast him a sideways look.  
  
"You okay?" he asked. This was new. Jacob believed real men only discussed their feelings on the Superbowl or when they'd accidentally sawn off an arm.   
  
Jacob was Brendon's oldest brother and sometimes, despite all God had to say on the subject, Brendon hated him.  
  
"Sure," said Brendon, all sprightly. "I just got kicked in the kidneys a few times, but it's nothing I won't piss out in a few days."   
  
"Language!" sing-songed his mother. Her denial was complete in its perfection, Brendon reflected, snatching a bread roll and cramming it into his mouth.  
  
"Yeah," said Jacob, "about that."  
  
"My kidneys?" said Brendon. He made sure to roll the crumbs into it. Jacob wasn't fazed by a little open-mouth chewing, though.  
  
"Yes, your kidneys," said Jacob. "I feel a deep and pressing concern for their welfare. The _bullying_ , idiot. It's got to stop."  
  
"I totally agree," said Brendon. "Let's get up a petition and leave it in church. God will smite Chuck's gang with red-hot smite, I just know it."  
  
"Don't be flippant." Mrs Urie moved the bread basket out of Brendon's reach. "I can understand your bitterness, but don't blame it on God. He that giveth also taketh away."  
  
"I'm all for the taketh away," said Brendon. "Were there any dates provided in that allegory?"  
  
Mr Urie emerged through the back door, dog bowl in hand. "I can't find Moses anywhere," he announced. "Did the damn animal slip his collar again?"  
  
" _Stephen_ ," said Mrs Urie. Mr Urie affected an innocent demeanour.   
  
"Sorry, sorry," said Mr Urie. "Tongue got away with me again. Did the _darn_ animal slip his collar again?"  
  
"He's probably in the dog house. Did you look?"  
  
"I called," said Mr Urie.  
  
"That is not - oh, never mind," huffed Mrs Urie. She took the dog bowl from Mr Urie's unresisting grip and opened the back door. Crickets chirped in the dusk.  
  
With an expression of singularly unholy satisfaction, Mr Urie slid into his seat and took advantage of the bread basket that was propped against his water glass. "How's work?" he asked Jacob.  
  
"Good," said Jacob. "Paul said I can start working full-time soon, once Nell moves to San Francisco."  
  
"Excellent!" said Mr Urie. He frowned a little at the mention of Nell, who daily committed the twin crimes of being a female mechanic and a lesbian. Brendon would have loved to be a fly on the wall to watch Jacob's interactions with her. He was never anything but polite when he mentioned her name, and the news of her orientation hadn't come from him. However, these things had a tendency to get around.   
  
Mr Urie and Jacob chatted on about their respective jobs. Brendon picked at the plastic surface of his place setting. The roses were huge and there were tiny accusing eyes hidden amongst the petals. Mr Urie didn't address one word to him.   
  
Mrs Urie returned, brimming with the success of her mission accomplished. She began serving the meal without interrupting Mr Urie's conversation, although she did cluck her tongue and mutter, "May Jesus show her the light" when Jacob mentioned Nell. Brendon mumbled along as his father said grace, not missing the sharp reproof in his mother's eyes.   
  
"So -" Jacob took the distraction provided by his father's gargantuan mouthful of beef to turn to Brendon "- we - Mom and Dad and I - have been discussing your situation."  
  
"Oh yeah?" said Brendon.   
  
"Dad suggested going to the principal, but I don't think that's the best idea." Brendon shook his head frantically. He wasn't stupid enough to imagine that would stop Chuck, although Chuck still felt obliged to point out why that was every third time or so. "I also don't think waiting around hoping for the best is going to be very good for you, either." Jacob laced his hands together. His wedding ring glinted in the yellow light. Brendon wondered if Jacob's newly minted fatherhood was the reason his parents had consulted him on the issue, or if Jacob just assumed he knew best anyway.   
  
"So we were wondering what you thought of this idea," said Jacob. "How would you feel about ... changing schools?"  
  
"Changing schools?" repeated Brendon.  
  
"Yeah," said Jacob. His gaze hopped across to Mrs Urie, over to Mr Urie, and back to Brendon. "We've all talked this out, and we agreed to chip in and send you to St Jude's Academy in Winchester. It's a good Christian place and they welcome Mormons."  
  
"And Muslims," said Mr Urie, sounding rather aggrieved by the fact.  
  
"It's all right, honey," said Mrs Urie. "I'm sure none of them actually want to go there."  
  
"St Jude's?" Brendon was bewildered. "Isn't that a boarding school?"  
  
Jacob nodded. "Of course, there's other options around Summerlin, but we thought you maybe needed a fresh start. Somewhere new." _Where no one knows you_ , he didn't say.  
  
"A fresh start," murmured Brendon. Jacob smiled, the same smile he wore when people witnessed in front of him. It was a superior, 'welcome back to the fold' expression, and it rubbed Brendon the wrong way. But still - a _fresh start_. Away from the bullies. Away from his family, too, and their confused disappointment when he mentioned applying to colleges other than BYU or played Bowie loud enough for them to hear.  
  
"It's not cheap," said Jacob, "but we figured you could apply for one of their scholarships." He pulled a crumpled bill out of his pocket and passed it to Brendon. With a leap of his heart, Brendon saw the intricate school motto emblazoned on the front. "Plus, we've got something to put towards it - the girls and Noah, too."  
  
"You'd all do that for me?" Brendon's eyes glazed, so he kept them firmly on the prospectus. Crying was simply Not Done in front of his father.  
  
"Of course." Jacob sounded almost offended. "You're our brother." For the first time, Brendon heard that as simply 'my brother' and not 'my brother in Christ.' It felt different. Better.  
  
"Thank you," he said. "May I be excused? I want to go look over this and see about the scholarships."  
  
"So you'll consider it?" said his mother anxiously.  
  
"Absolutely." Brendon broke out into a grin. Jacob and Mrs Urie smiled - smugly, in the case of the former, but Brendon didn't care.  
  
Mr Urie scratched his nose. "Be back in a quarter-hour to wash the dishes," he said.  
  
+++  
  
Brendon was just finishing raking up the yard when Melanie's acid-green VW Beetle tore around the corner, narrowly missing a fatal collision with Mrs Zuckerman's letterbox. Brendon dropped the rake and leapt towards the relative safety of the porch, but he was grinning.  
  
Melanie was talking - well, yelling - into a cellphone as she slid out of the car, her skirt just a little too short and too tight, her heels just a little too high. But her Ray-Bans matched her car, because no matter what else happened Melanie was still Melanie.  
  
"- because I'm busy," said Melanie, with a tone of finality that Brendon knew well from a hundred bedtimes and failed pleas for candy. "No. No, I don't have to, actually. The only person I report to is my boss, and last I checked you weren't him." Melanie breathed heavily through her nose. "Fine."   
  
Brendon came down the porch steps hesitantly. Melanie's temper was legendary, and her nostrils were flaring in a way that suggested danger ahead. But her expression cleared like summer lightning when she saw him. "Beebee!" she said, holding out her arms. Brendon hugged her tight. She was the only one of his siblings who didn't ever mind being hugged.  
  
"Hey, Mellon," he said, scratching his chin on her oversized pearl necklace. "Mom never said you were coming."  
  
"That's 'cause Mom didn't know I was coming," said Melanie. "Hel - heck, _I_ didn't know I was coming. I wanted to have a chat with you about this school thing, then Greg got on my case about something, and next thing we know I'm back in the hood."  
  
Brendon tried not to feel hurt. At twenty-three, Melanie was plenty old to be still unmarried. He should be happy for her and Greg. They'd been going to couples group for months; their engagement was all but official. Mrs Urie was over the moon.   
  
"Are you free now? Because I'm having an idea." Melanie pushed her sunglasses into her hair, revealing eyes sparkling with mischief.   
  
"Let me just check my really busy schedule."  
  
Melanie poked him in the forehead. Brendon shied away, his glasses slipping down his nose.   
  
"When's the last time you got new frames, Beebee?" asked Melanie. "I swear Mom wore ones like those in 1988."  
  
Brendon shrugged. He had better things to spend his allowance on; guitars didn't just string themselves. "They're fine."  
  
"No, they're ugly," said Melanie, "but I see how you could get those two confused. C'mon, get in."  
  
"But -" Brendon gestured at his grass-stained tennis shoes and faded sweats.   
  
"Yeah," said Melanie, with a jingle of car-keys. "That's the second item on our agenda."  
  
+++  
  
Brendon prayed that he'd get a scholarship. It was an odd feeling - praying and meaning it. It reeked of his childhood and how he'd wished really hard for a BMX for his birthday. He'd got it, too, which bolstered up his faith for years to come.  
  
"Please God," he said in bed, clasped hands tucked between his curled-up knees, "do this for me, and I'll start believing in you again. Really believing. I swear."  
  
When the - thick, bulky - acceptance letter came, he was almost disappointed.   
  
+++  
  
Brendon had expected something more military.   
  
He ran his hand along the oak panelling, stared open-mouthed at the plaster angels on the ceiling. He ended up trailing behind his parents and the principal, Miss Finch, and had to jog to catch up. There was a _chandelier_ , just hanging there twinkling as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. The whole place couldn't be like this.  
  
It wasn't. "Most of the main wing is a historical landmark," said Miss Finch, sounding almost apologetic, "so it's mainly used as a reception hall, and for assemblies and plays. The drama club has colonised most of the common rooms." Mr Urie's mouth went flat the mention of 'drama club.' Brendon was careful not to betray any enthusiasm. "The classrooms are all in the East Wing, the dormitories in the West. As a sophomore, you'll be on the third floor this semester, but in September you'll be moving up to the fourth floor." She smiled. "Everyone likes the fourth floor; it has turrets."   
  
Compared to the grandeur of the main hall, the dormitories were pretty basic. The carpets were clean but grey. The walls there looked like they'd taken more of a battering than those elsewhere. The doors were loaded down with - everything; from whiteboards to dirty drawings pinned up with thumbtacks. Mrs Finch laughed. Brendon could detect a quaver of embarrassment in the note.  
  
"We usually have the kids clean up before potential students come to visit," she said. "But you're rather a special case - and also short notice."  
  
Brendon smiled at her: his biggest, widest smile. He didn't dare to actually say anything, not with his father's horrified eyes drifting over one ode to 'Jenny's hotass bod', complete with illustrations.   
  
"We don't usually let people start mid-term," she continued, "but one of our students got the opportunity to go to France with his father for the semester, freeing up a space. So you'll be sharing with Bert McCracken." She gestured at a door that was heavily emblazoned with stickers and pin-scratched scrawls. Either Bert or his Europe-bound roommate was clearly a big fan of Nirvana and Metallica. If Mr Urie's eyes didn't pop right out at the sight, it was only because he thought nirvana was just another word for 'the eternal peace of Christ.'  
  
"I'll leave you for a few minutes to get settled in." Miss Finch had a sweet face, but it was strengthened by the girders of wrinkles that folded up when she smiled. "Your parents and I will take some refreshments in my office while we wait. Do you remember how to get back there?" After Brendon's nod, she added, "I'll assign one of our older students to show you around later."  
  
"Thank you," Brendon remembered to say, but so softly he wasn't sure she heard. He slung his book bag over his shoulder and picked up his two suitcases, ignoring the frantic fluttering of his heart against the bars of his ribs. He tried not to take it as bad sign that Chuck Lawrence was also a fan of Metallica.  
  
After the seconds of heady anticipation, finding the room empty was almost a let-down. Brendon shuffled forward, kicking the heavier suitcase ahead of him. The room contained two narrow beds, two even narrower desks, two practically anorexic closets, and a window to separate the room into halves. The curtains were a sickly shade of yellow and boasted some odd stains. Bert's bed had, apparently, recently taken a thrashing from a herd of elephants. Half the duvet was twisted up on to the desk, which in turn spilled papers, books and crumpled-up soda cans back on to the mattress.   
  
The walls were almost completely obscured by posters. Brendon just about recognised Kurt Cobain's parody of an anguished saint, and he was pretty sure the guy leering at him from the ceiling was Marilyn Manson. For a minute he grasped the edge of why church elders found these musicians so threatening. But he dismissed his reservations and set about investigating his bed and the sliver of floor visible around it.  
  
It was while Brendon was wrestling his pillows into their covers that a knock came at the door. He hesitated for a second, wondering if it were one of Bert's friends and what he would do if it were. Then again, it might be Miss Finch (or, heaven forbid, his dad), so he called, "Come in." It came out sounding like a question.  
  
The door opened slowly, and Brendon realised his second suitcase was blocking the way. He dropped the pillow and leaped to the rescue, hauling the case aside. He straightened, red-faced and panting, to see a boy on the doorstep.  
  
Brendon's scholarship included a stipend for uniforms. Half of his first suitcase was crammed with starched white shirts, prickly navy sweaters and grey pants with creases down the front. Ties and black lace-ups were also heavily implicated. However, it was five o'clock - well past time for classes to let out - and this boy had taken 'student's choice' on a little stroll that encompassed the turn of the century, the Wild West, and vintage Charlie Chaplin. Brendon was pretty sure the lacy orange thing around his neck was actually a poncho.  
  
The fact that preceded all others, though - and the one Brendon's mind was carefully shying around every time he ventured too close - was that the boy was pretty. Like, insanely pretty. He had long, delicate fingers that were fidgeting amongst his poncho's stranglehold, and an angular, fine-boned face. He was still absurdly male, as the hobblingly-tight jeans made abundantly clear.   
  
"Hi," said the boy, looking a little unnerved by Brendon's scrutiny. Brendon didn't blame him; he hurriedly dropped his eyes to his own feet. His battered loafers seemed very plain next to the boy's gold-tooled cowboy boots. "I'm Ryan Ross the _Third_." There was a slightly sardonic twist to the way he said it, but Brendon didn't realise that until much later, when he was better able to plumb the depths of Ryan's eternal monotone. At that moment all he heard was 'the third,' with all it implied in terms of bloodlines and privilege and money.   
  
Ryan put his head on one side; a sheaf of soft-brown hair slipped from the confines of his violet bowler hat. "Sorry, _can_ you talk? We had a deaf guy last year, it's fine, it's just I'll need to get someone from the sign-language club -"  
  
"Sign-language club?" blurted Brendon, and blushed as Ryan smiled. (It was a very small smile, a mere twitch of the lips, but Brendon easily recognised it for what it was.)  
  
"Greta's doing," said Ryan. "She decided if we could have a club for every language spoken on the greater European continent, plus a few that aren't, there could be one for sign-language. Finch doesn't even argue anymore." Ryan took an exaggeratedly high step over Brendon's book bag. "Do you have any strong opinions against learning to sign? Because unless you do, Greta _will_ rope you in. She can smell fresh blood from a mile off. She is in many ways like a shark."  
  
"Um." Brendon blushed harder as Ryan poked curiously at the half-dressed bed. "I wouldn't mind learning. Sign language, I mean."  
  
"Tell Greta I sent you, I'll be in cookies for a month." Ryan plumped down on Brendon's bed without so much as a by-your-leave and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. "I like your sheets," he said, smoothing his hand down the duvet cover.  
  
They were a burnt cream colour with large brown and aqua circles. Melanie had insisted, after nearly having a heart attack when Brendon said he was bringing some of Mrs Urie's linen. 'Turn up to a posh school like that with _rose-embroidered_ sheets? Oh no, you're too young to die.'   
  
The memory made Brendon a little sniffly. He crouched down to empty his book bag and hide his feelings.  
  
He could feel Ryan watching him as he dumped his collection on the empty desk. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, but his skin grew squirmy. Damp darts broke out on the back of his neck.  
  
"Your bed is very comfortable," said Ryan. "Why is everyone's bed but mine always comfortable? Anyway, I think you should tell me your name. It's kind of tacky to roll all over someone's mattress without finding that out first."  
  
Brendon gasped a laugh and stuck out his free hand, although he was afraid it might be sticky with sweat. Ryan took it in a dry clasp, arching his eyebrows. "Brendon. My name is Brendon."  
  
+++  
  
If anyone else had said, 'Forget unpacking, come with me,' Brendon would have returned an emphatic no. He'd been brought up in the ways of neatness (next to Godliness) and besides, he didn't want to leave out half the contents of his underwear drawer for Bert to inspect. And yet when Ryan rolled off the bed into a standing position and held out his hand, Brendon said, 'Okay, sure' without a second thought.  
  
"Do you usually show new kids around?" asked Brendon, thundering down stairs Ryan had taken in a single, flying leap. Ryan looked up at him as he waited.  
  
"No," he said, and gave the little flickering smile again. Brendon felt ridiculously flattered. And he'd been here an hour without getting punched. Things were looking up.  
  
They looked down again pretty quick, when the first student they ran across turned out to be Brendon's roommate Bert. He was lounging in a doorway with a number of cronies. They were all dressed in dusty black with long, lank hair that would have had Mr Urie reaching for a pair of scissors and Mrs Urie for a vat of shampoo. Brendon didn't hang around with people like them at his old school, for fear of it getting back to his parents. He'd always felt a little sorry about that; it wasn't like the mainstream kids welcomed him with open arms.   
  
These boys - although one of them could have been a girl; Brendon couldn't tell - didn't look hostile, but they didn't sure didn't look welcoming. One of them smirked at Ryan as he approached. Brendon didn't think it was a 'howdy partner' kind of smirk, either. He snuck a look at Ryan's face, which had gone slightly congealed.  
  
"Where's your fairy court, Ice Queen?" asked the smirker. He wasn't much taller than Brendon, but he was of stockier build. The screenprint of Nirvana splashed across his t-shirt gave Brendon the first clue to his identity.  
  
"Go pierce your vagina," said Ryan sweetly. Brendon stifled a gasp. The smirker's eyes slid over him.   
  
"This one's new." He hoisted himself off the doorjamb. "Oh Jesus, don't tell me _you're_ Brendon Urie."  
  
"Okay, I won't," said Brendon, and pre-emptively winced. It was those sort of remarks that gained him such an intimate acquaintance with Chuck's knuckles. Bert - it had to be - didn't hit him, though; he just snorted and exchanged eye-rolls with the possibly-girl.  
  
"Listen, kid," said Bert, "before Quinn fucked off to Frogland he was happy to let me use some of his wallspace. I hope we're not gonna have troubles on that score."  
  
Brendon frowned. "Oh! No, it's cool. I don't have any posters."  
  
"For _real_?" said Bert. "Okay. Can I use your wall, then?"  
  
"No," said Brendon firmly. "I still need somewhere to hang my embroidery."  
  
The maybe-female gave a throaty cackle. Bert scrunched up his eyes, but Brendon saw his lips quiver first. Ryan's mouth dropped a little, before he snapped his lips back into a straight line. But the echo of a smile still lingered there, and a warm tickle thrummed Brendon's bones.   
  
He followed Ryan through the door, where his attention was distracted by a sour-faced boy perched on a sofa arm. Brendon took the chance to observe his surroundings. The plush, worn sofas and decorative but empty fireplace suggested that it was one of the common rooms.   
  
"Spencer," said Ryan, "Spencer Smith the _fifth_ , I want to introduce you to someone."  
  
Spencer's hair was shiny and his eyes were narrowed. Brendon had seen more open expressions on a sphinx. "Hi," he said, holding out a hand. "I'm Brendon Urie the twenty-seventh."  
  
Spencer's face split into a smile. He didn't smile like Ryan, in careful measurements, but widely, twinklingly, blindingly. However, the expression lasted even fewer nanoseconds than Ryan's, if that were possible. "The twenty-seventh, huh?" he said, shaking Brendon's hand.  
  
"Do you shake everyone's hand?" asked Ryan. "Huh. Quaint."  
  
"It's _polite_ ," Spencer corrected him.   
  
Brendon shrugged. "I'm with him. My mom says politeness never goes out of fashion."  
  
"She hasn't been to Paris lately, has she?" asked Ryan doubtfully.  
  
"She's never been out of America," said Brendon.   
  
"Me neither." Spencer eyed Brendon. " _Really_ the twenty-seventh?"  
  
"No," admitted Brendon. "I just felt left out."  
  
"Trust me, in this place, _not_ being the fifth or twenty-seventh something is more unique." Spencer appeared to telegraph something to Ryan with his eyebrows. Brendon switched his gaze to Ryan's face, which was helpfully blank. "So, Brendon Urie the first, have you picked any club activities yet?"  
  
"Dude, I haven't even finished unpacking," said Brendon. "Also, I think I have to go meet my parents now."  
  
"I'll take you down the short cut," said Spencer. He smiled at Brendon again, a brief shock of teeth and lips, but didn't move. He seemed to be waiting for Ryan.  
  
"Application slips," Ryan said, possibly to himself. He was staring up, though Brendon wasn't sure at what - there were no plaster angels here.  
  
"Brendon just said he hasn't picked any clubs yet," Spencer pointed out.  
  
Ryan looked over at Brendon. Something about the shadows from his hat and the sweep of his eyelashes gave a weird depth to his stare. He hummed, and said, "Sure, whatever."  
  
Spencer sighed and grabbed Brendon's elbow. When Spencer leaned in to whisper, Brendon didn't feel shaky and warm. He decided not to analyse why that was, though.  
  
"If you're very lucky," said Spencer, "he won't put you down for scrapbooking. But don't hold your breath."  
  
+++  
  
Brendon didn't realise how much time had passed until he saw his parents' faces. They were both fidgety, in the way that meant Miss Finch had probably offered them tea and coffee and the resulting refusals had stemmed the petite flow of conversation. Mr Urie actually looked _relieved_ when he saw Brendon.  
  
"I was afraid you'd got lost," said Miss Finch, whose wrinkles had tightened in the interval.  
  
"Sorry," said Brendon. "I met Ryan Ross the third and we got talking."  
  
"Ryan Ross? The ... third?" repeated Miss Finch. Her expression suggested she was trying to hold back a sneeze. "Well. It's good to see you settling in. I'll leave you to say your goodbyes."  
  
Mrs Urie hugged Brendon tightly and pressed a pocket-sized Bible into his hand. Brendon - embarrassed despite being alone with them in the hallway - stuffed it deep into his cargo pants.  
  
"Thanks, Mom," he said. "I brought my own one, though."  
  
If anything, his mother looked _more_ worried at that. "Promise me you'll read a little every day," she said. "And go to church. They have ... _non-denominational_ services every Sunday. And don't forget to call!"  
  
"I will," said Brendon.  
  
"Miss Finch said they have payphones." Mrs Urie fussed with Brendon's collar. "We'll see about getting you a cell phone next term, maybe. You can let us know if you need more quarters, or something..."  
  
"I'm going to be fine, Mom," said Brendon. He would have said this even if he hadn't met Ryan Ross, the third, an hour ago. On the other hand, it meant Ryan Ross, the third, had saved him from the sin of lying. Ryan Ross was pretty cool.  
  
"I know," said his mother, her eyes big and wet. Mr Urie grunted and gripped Brendon's shoulder. Brendon could feel the bones grinding under his fingers.  
  
"Remember who you are," he said. "This is a place where it'd be easy to forget."  
  
Brendon looked down, at his sensible brown shoes, and nodded. He thought about the new sneakers that lay in his suitcase. And the ten-year-old Book of Mormon that lay next to them.  
  
Mrs Urie hugged him one last time. Brendon let her smooth down his hair, even though he knew it made him look five years old. Then they were gone.  
  
Mrs Finch materialised from the shadows. "Feeling a bit sad," she said. It wasn't a question, so Brendon didn't have to answer. He might feel sad later; now, he only felt impatient to see his new friends again. He followed her into her office. "Your parents were quite keen for you to meet our chaplain, Mr Waterstone."  
  
She looked at him expectantly. Brendon realised this _was_ a question. "Right," he said. "That sounds ... yeah. Fine."  
  
"Unfortunately Mr Waterstone was on a retreat this weekend," she said. "He's expected back sometime tonight. Here is his card." She handed over a flat white square, on which were printed Mr Waterstone's name, credentials (he had a Ph.D in Comparative Religion), a symbol of clasped hands and 'Room 19, East Wing'. "I was going to assign Gabe Saporta to show you around, but -"  
  
"Ryan said he'd do it," Brendon jumped in. "If that's okay?"  
  
"I don't see why not," said Miss Finch. "He's never volunteered before - ever - but that's no reason why he wouldn't be just as good at it as any other student here. You can ask him, then, to help you find room 19. Also - if there are any problems, or you want any more help, please let me know."  
  
Brendon saw the implied insult to Ryan in that, but he also saw a teacher who seemed genuinely concerned. "Thanks."  
  
"And now, dinner," said Miss Finch. "If I've learned anything about teenage boys in my career, it's that they're always hungry. If you follow the hall down to the right, you'll come to a large set of double doors. That's the dining hall. Now, seating is by class for breakfast and lunch, but you may sit wherever you choose at dinner."  
  
"Great!" Brendon smiled and confided, "I am kind of starving. It was a long drive."  
  
"Go on, then. And hopefully I won't see you here again soon, because you won't be in any kind of trouble."  
  
Brendon's hand brushed the Bible in his pocket. "No, mam." He bounced out the door, ignoring Miss Finch's indulgent smile and, also, her sigh.  
  
+++  
  
It didn't take long to spot Ryan, mainly because as soon as he saw Brendon hovering in the doorway he leapt out of his seat and waved. A few strides of his long legs brought him to the door.  
  
"Brendon, hey," said Ryan. "So." He looked slightly at a loss, fiddling with a tassel on his poncho.  
  
"I'm so hungry," moaned Brendon. He clutched his stomach. Miss Finch's directions gave the impression that the dining hall was _close by_ , when in fact Brendon had walked shorter distances across football pitches.   
  
Ryan's mouth twitched. "The serving line's over there. C'mon, I'll show you."  
  
Brendon shook his head. "Too far. Hey, there's a table. That looks tasty. I can lie down, gnaw on it, something."  
  
"I've tried that," said Ryan. "They're not as appetising as they look, trust me." He touched Brendon's elbow, guiding him around the clutter of long oak tables and benches. Brendon couldn't decide if he wanted to shake Ryan off or have something _more_ \- more what, he didn't know. He felt his insides jangle sweetly, so he did the only thing he could think of to distract himself: he talked.  
  
"Wow, this place is seriously impressive. Those are some big paintings." He angled his head for a better look and nearly tripped over a bench. Ryan's grip became tighter and his steering more obvious; Brendon tried not to notice. "I mean, clearly someone said: I must have the biggest, ugliest paintings of women in corsets ever created. They can't just be medium-sized or plain. This room alone must have funded twenty painters."  
  
"The school was initially set up by a group of women," said Ryan. "Patronesses. It was a charity thing. I'm pretty sure most of those paintings were done by past students."  
  
"Students of what?" asked Brendon. "Cubism?"  
  
Ryan did that thing where he _didn't_ laugh, but Brendon could tell he wanted to. His lips went all flat and kind of dug into each other. Brendon barked his knee off a rack of trays.   
  
"You'll need one of these." Ryan passed him a tray with a handful of cutlery. The cutlery slid all over the place and Brendon bent his knee to balance it all. Ryan was giving him an 'are you for real?' look, so Brendon grabbed the cutlery and stuffed it in his pocket. That, at least, solved one problem.  
  
"And now." Ryan spread his hands. "Food. Mostly inedible, of course. Are you a vegetarian?"  
  
"Er," said Brendon. Ryan's expression could be described as 'thunderous'; only it was Ryan, who seemed to minimalise his emotions, so it came out as 'heavy showers.' "Not as such. No."  
  
"Most people here are," said Ryan. "Or if they're not, they end up as one. You'll see what I mean after the eight days of chicken."  
  
"I like chicken," said Brendon.  
  
"You say that _now_ ," said Ryan.  
  
He guided Brendon to the salad bar, the hot meals, the cold meals, the cereal bar ('some people like cereal,' was Ryan's shrugging reply, and Brendon resolved to have Froot Loops for dinner as soon as possible) and the juice bar, which contained more varieties of soda, juice and bottled water than Brendon saw in most markets. It was at the dessert rack that things got interesting.  
  
"So -" Brendon twirled the rack. "- much. Sugar."   
  
"Oh, great," said Ryan. "You're a sugar junkie."  
  
"How could you say no? _Look_ at that éclair. It's begging to be eaten. But so is the ice-cream. Decisions, they're so hard. Hey, stop laughing at me."  
  
"I'm not laughing," protested Ryan. It was true; he wasn't. But Brendon could tell he wanted to. "Did you bring your meal plan with you? It's okay if you didn't, I can cover you for one night -"  
  
"No, I did. Hold this." Brendon jostled the tray into Ryan's hands. He dug into his back pockets, going up on his heels. After some rummaging, and a lot of eye-rolling on Ryan's part, Brendon managed to locate his meal plan. This was a pink laminated ticket with his name and student ID. Ryan's eyes flashed.  
  
"You're a pinkie?" he said. At Brendon's 'huh?' he added, "A scholarship student?"  
  
For an instant, the light was sucked out of the room. Brendon snatched his tray back. "Yeah," he said shortly. Ryan's face was screwed up in an unflattering expression of shock. Brendon turned on his heel, scanning the room for a pay-station. He knew this was too good to be true, he _knew_ it -  
  
"Hey." Ryan's touch on his shoulder made him flinch. Ryan quickly withdrew his hand, but he stepped around in front of Brendon. "I was just surprised, that's all. Pinkies usually get a big-deal orientation and stuff, a guided tour of the school - you kind of see them coming."  
  
"I was supposed to have a tour with Gabe Saporta." Ryan choked. "But -" Brendon bit his lip and grew confused by how Ryan's eyes flickered over it. "Well. I told Miss Finch you'd do it. I didn't realise you were anti-scholarships or whatever."  
  
"Jesus, here." Ryan grabbed the end of the tray before half Brendon's dinner slid off it. "That meal plan only gets you four desserts a week. I usually let Spence have a couple of mine - whenever he's not on some crazy-ass diet, anyway. If you want I'll get yours tonight, so you'll have an extra day. I don't know, you look like someone who needs dessert in their life."  
  
"This is true," said Brendon. "But I'll get my own dessert, thanks."  
  
"Shut up," said Ryan. "I'll get your stupid ice-cream." He took the bowl off the tray and fished out his own meal ticket - it was green. "It's the least I can do," he added, "as your own official tour guide and everything."  
  
Brendon's grin made Ryan blink rapidly and turn away.  
  
+++  
  
Brendon remembered to ask about Ryan's own dinner only when he got to Ryan's table, where a group of people were in varying stages of eating.   
  
"Did you eat already?" he asked in an undertone. Spencer Smith the fifth, however, had very sharp ears.  
  
"Ryan? Eat? That's a good one," he said. "Ooh, is that ice-cream?"  
  
"South Beach Diet, remember?" said Ryan. "And I get my two thousands calories a day. Don't give me that look."  
  
"Twizzlers don't count as food," said Spencer.  
  
"Oh, but they're really good with corn chips!" said Brendon. Ryan did his lip-digging thing again.   
  
"I saved you a seat," he said, pointing across the table. "Beside Keltie. Keltie, Vicky, Gabe, Jon, Ryland, Patrick - this is Brendon. Brendon - everyone."  
  
"So this is your newest collectable item," said the taller boy, the one with hooded eyes and a neon pink windcheater. _Gabe_ , prompted Brendon's brain. He wasn't great with names, but it had never been a problem before. When people didn't talk to you, you didn't need to remember what they were called.   
  
"Here, sweetie," said the blonde girl, as Brendon slipped around the table. He wished he could have sat beside Ryan and Spencer, but there was no room. He ended up across from Ryan, so that was something. "I'm Keltie, in case you missed that speed-of-light intro."  
  
"Hi." Brendon squeezed in beside her and smiled shyly. He'd never sat this close to a girl before, and the table was pretty jammed. Brendon got the feeling there weren't supposed to be this many people sitting at it. Keltie was picking at a salad, which made Brendon feel all the more self-conscious as he took his knife to cut his chicken. He tuned into Ryan's conversation with Gabe.  
  
"- when do you do tours?" asked Ryan. "Surely even you can find easier ways of picking up chicks."  
  
"Easy for you to say," drawled Gabe.  
  
"Call a girl a 'chick' again and I'll put this fork through your eye," said the other girl, who had to be Vicky. Her voice was low and husky and almost bored-sounding. Mrs Urie would have taken a washcloth to her eye makeup.   
  
"Down, girl," said Gabe. "Look, I wanted some extra credit. It counts as tutoring."  
  
"Again," said Ryan, playing with his water glass - his fingers were really long, thought Brendon, and for some reason nearly choked on a tomato. "What skills do you have to pass on that anyone could put on a transcript?"  
  
"It probably comes under 'leadership qualities,'" said Gabe. "Fuck it, Finch was riding my ass on this. I really need some extra-curriculars."  
  
"Don't look at me," said Ryan. "I hear Greta has an opening in the German club."  
  
"I don't even take German." Gabe's voice had a distinctly whiny quality now. "Ryland, kick him."  
  
"I will not," said Ryland serenely. He didn't even look up from the book he was reading. Brendon spotted the words 'theoretical physics' in the title. "You want someone kicked, you kick them yourself. We've discussed this."  
  
"You're fired from being my bitch," said Gabe.  
  
"Thank god." Ryland flipped a page. Gabe sighed and put his head on the shoulder of the guy beside him. He had scruffy stubble and sleepy eyes, and was huddled into his hoodie like an Eskimo. "You wanna be my bitch?" Gabe asked him.  
  
"Would I have to like, spank you?" Brendon choked again, and this time Ryan cut him a look. "'Cause I wouldn't be down with that."  
  
"I could spank you." Gabe hooked a spider-monkey arm around - Jon, it was either Jon or Patrick, and Brendon was pretty sure Patrick was Hat Guy. "It would be awesome. People would pay me money to watch."  
  
"Yeah, you have a sick mind," said Jon. "I quit already. Pervert."  
  
"Don't even say it," warned the Hat Guy.  
  
"Like I would." Gabe made a kissy-face at Hat Guy. His gaze rounded the table and - bypassing the girls entirely - landed on Brendon. Brendon became very interested in his salad.  
  
"Now there's a thought," said Gabe. Brendon could feel the slow burn of a blush starting. He hastily took a sip of water, looking through the bottom to see not only Gabe, but Ryan and Spencer staring at him. "Hey, mini-Ross, what are your qualifications? Do you have what it takes to be my bitch?"  
  
"Uh, no," said Brendon. "You could be mine, though? I have pretty low standards."  
  
Ryan's face flared into an honest-to-god grin for a second. It faded quickly, but the warmth in Brendon's cheeks suddenly had nothing to do with Gabe.   
  
"This is all your fault, you know." Gabe flicked a lettuce leaf into Ryland's book. "I ask you to do one tiny thing for me -"  
  
Ryland reached across and grabbed Ryan's hand. "Please," he said urgently. "Let Gabe into the drama club. Otherwise he'll drive me insane. You won't like me when I'm insane."  
  
"Whatever." Ryan dipped his little finger in his water and sucked it off delicately. "You're either going to be cross-dressing or painting sets. Your pick."  
  
"Are you in charge of the drama club, then?" asked Brendon. He was proud that, in this group of loud, boisterous, _intimidating_ people, his voice only shook a little.   
  
"President in good standing, two years running," said Ryan. " _And_ Vice-President of the Music Appreciation Society."  
  
"Not to be confused with the _actual_ Music Society," said Vicky. "Which is only for people who can play instruments."  
  
"The ukulele _is_ an instrument," said Ryan.  
  
"Some people say that about your face," said Vicky.   
  
"I notice you've never missed a meeting of the _Appreciation_ Society," said Ryan.  
  
Vicky shrugged and returned to massacring a quiche. "I only do it for Greta's cookies."  
  
"I've heard great things about these cookies," said Brendon to Keltie. "I hope they live up to my hugely inflated expectations."  
  
"I bet they will," said Keltie. She was filing her nails: they were a pearly shade of pink. "I don't eat anything with that much whole butter in it, but even Ryan's had some." She raised her voice. "Isn't that right, honey?"   
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Say 'pardon,'" Keltie admonished, waving her nail file. "Greta's cookies. You liked them, right?"  
  
"It was like eating an orgasm," said Ryan promptly. Keltie giggled. Brendon flailed for his water glass. He couldn't help it. He'd never heard sex talked about like this before - like it was no big deal. He was aware other teenagers thought that way, but his main influences were forty-year-old Mormons. "Oh man, Bren, you'll _love_ them. She's promised to make some for drama club tomorrow. You'll get to try them then."  
  
Brendon felt a trickle of happiness at Ryan's casual use of his nickname. "It sounds like fun," he said. "If you have any use for people who can't act, that is."  
  
"Totally." Ryan waved a hand. "We have about fifty invisible members - you know, people who only put it on their transcript and never show up for rehearsals and shit? And then people like Gabe, whose use in life hasn't yet been ascertained -"  
  
"Your mom said that last night!" yelled Gabe. He was tickling - molesting? - Patrick now, trying to get hold of his hat. Patrick apparently had no tickle spots, because his hands remained clamped over his trucker hat despite Gabe's best efforts.  
  
"Like, there's way more to drama club than acting." Ryan warmed to his theme. "Directing, and set design, and writing -"  
  
"Ryan's written about thirty plays," interjected Spencer. He looked forlornly at Brendon's ice-cream. "They're really good."  
  
"It's more like ten, and they're crap," said Ryan. "But there's a tonne of opportunities. You'll join, right?"  
  
"Sure," said Brendon. Ryan let out a puff of what looked like relief. The idea of someone recruiting _Brendon_ was so foreign that Brendon had to take another gulp of water. At that moment, Patrick kneed Gabe in the groin. Gabe yowled and rolled sideways, knocking Ryland's book into Vicky's quiche. Vicky thumped Gabe on the ear with it, then stomped off.  
  
"My book," said Ryland, making grabby-hands at Vicky's retreating back. He was trapped on the bench by Gabe's prostrate form.   
  
"She loves me really," moaned Gabe. "Ouch. Deep, deep down."  
  
"I told you not to touch my hat, fucker," said Patrick.   
  
"Yeah, I'm really glad _you're_ joining the drama club, Brendon," said Ryan pointedly.  
  
"Whatever, you just want another cute boy to crush on," said Gabe. "Considering you can't have my fine ass."  
  
"I wouldn't touch your fine ass," said Ryan. "I don't want herpes, thanks."  
  
"Ha, you said my ass was fine!" crowed Gabe.  
  
"Both of you, quit it," said Keltie. "You're embarrassing Brendon." She pulled him close and kissed his temple. "It's okay, sweetie. They don't mean it."  
  
"I know," mumbled Brendon, his face fiery. He wasn't _dumb_. Also. Keltie's boobs were _right there_. Her low-cut sweater wasn't disguising that fact _at all._   
  
"Are you trying to put the moves on my girlfriend?" asked Ryan. He was wearing a little smirk.  
  
"What? No!" exclaimed Brendon. Keltie let him go with a hair-ruffle. What was she, his mom? "You two are - I didn't -"  
  
"Chill, dude," said Gabe. "Ryan's totally easy. You know it's not gay if you don't - ow!"  
  
"Seriously," said Patrick, extracting his fork from Gabe's thigh. "Shut up for ten whole minutes and I'll give you a dollar."  
  
"Make it two," said Gabe. Patrick sighed and nodded. Gabe mimed zipping his mouth shut, although not before sending Brendon a lewd wink.  
  
All of a sudden, Brendon felt sick. He'd probably eaten too much. "You want this?" he asked Spencer, pushing over his ice-cream.  
  
"I shouldn't," said Spencer reluctantly. Gabe grabbed a spoon. "Oh, what the hell." Spencer yanked the bowl out of Gabe's reach and tucked in.  
  
Brendon looked around the crowded dining hall: full of happy, laughing people he didn't know, every one of them just waiting to find out how much of a loser Brendon Urie truly was. He longed for his bedroom at home, shut away from a world that was too confusing for him to handle.  
  
"You look tired," said Ryan softly. Brendon almost didn't catch it, what with Spencer's exaggerated moans of ecstasy for Gabe's benefit and Keltie's giggles at the performance. "You want some company back to your room?"  
  
Brendon just nodded, not trusting himself to speak just then.  
  
"I'll catch you losers later," said Ryan, louder. "I'm showing Brendon back to his room." Gabe's mouth opened.  
  
"Two dollars," warned Patrick. Gabe visibly wavered, but said nothing. Patrick turned to Brendon. "Hey, I guess I'll see you in class tomorrow. You're a sophomore too, right?"  
  
"Yeah," said Brendon. "I have music first."  
  
"I'll save you a seat," said Patrick. Brendon smiled; it had a bit of a tremble in it. There was a chorus of 'Night, Brendon's from the table.   
  
Ryan bumped shoulders with Brendon on the way out. "Homesickness. Happens to the best of us."  
  
They climbed the stairs in silence and were almost back to Brendon's room before he found the courage to ask, "How long have you been going out?"  
  
"Who - me and Keltie? Uh ... since October, maybe. You'd have to ask her if you want exact dates. Or Spencer. He has this list on his phone of the birthdays of everyone he's ever met. It's awesome - one of my girlfriends would have killed me by now if it wasn't for that stupid thing."  
  
"It's not stupid if it, like, prevents _death_ ," said Brendon, more sharply than he'd intended.   
  
"I guess. Listen, class starts at nine and breakfast runs from seven. I was thinking: put your alarm on for seven and I can show you around some of the essential places before class."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Don't mention it." Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets. "Hey, don't - don't think about things too much, okay? Just try to go to sleep."  
  
"Yeah," said Brendon. He waited until Ryan had jogged back down the corridor before he went into his room.  
  
+++  
  
By the time Bert came back, Brendon was curled up in bed with his battered Bible while an intercom screeched, "Five minutes to lights-out! Five minutes to lights-out!"  
  
"Shut the fuck up!" Bert roared at the speaker above the door. Brendon jumped. "Oh - forgot you were there."  
  
"Okay," said Brendon politely. He returned his gaze to the parable of the talents, which he'd read three times without taking in a word. Bert shucked off his clothes and kicked them into a corner. He crawled into bed wearing only his boxers.  
  
When the intercom finally wailed, "Final warning - lights-out!", Brendon shut his Bible and leaned down to shove it into a drawer.  
  
"You religious or something?" asked Bert. Brendon looked across. Bert was propped up on one elbow, displaying three tattoos, a pierced nipple and a quantity of naked, hairy chest.   
  
"Mormon," said Brendon, dropping his eyes.  
  
"Cute," said Bert. "Allah Akbar and all that."  
  
"Mormon," repeated Brendon. "Not Muslim."  
  
"Oh, well." Bert traced a lazy circle in the air. "They start with the same letter."  
  
"They sure do," agreed Brendon. He reached up to turn off his lamp. "Um. Goodnight."  
  
Bert's laugh rolled over the darkness. "What do Mormons say about jerking off?"  
  
"Nothing, if they can help it," said Brendon.  
  
"So will you go to hell if I - you know?"  
  
" _Now_?"  
  
"I suppose I could schedule, like, a timetable," said Bert, reluctance dripping from each word. "Me and Quinn used to have competitions ... good times."  
  
"I'm going to sleep now," said Brendon. " _Right_ now. This minute."  
  
"Ah. Gotcha."  
  
Brendon faked a snore and pulled the pillow over his ears. His insides were roiling with embarrassment.   
  
As a muffler, the pillow was absolutely useless. He could hear the rustle of sheets, the slick sounds, and above all Bert's heavy gasps, as if he were right there in the bed with him, and _whoa_ , Brendon did not want to go there.  
  
Finally, when Brendon had said every prayer he knew and was on to freestyle begging, Bert bit out a harsh ' _Fuck_.' The mattress creaked, Bert sighed and - so Brendon devoutly hoped - it was all over. A few minutes later whuffling snores informed Brendon that Bert was asleep. He let go of the pillow.  
  
Brendon wondered who Ryan shared a room with. Did they listen when Ryan did that? Did _Ryan_ listen when they -   
  
Brendon bit his hand and thought of his Aunt Patrice naked. Still, when he rolled on to his stomach it was with a wince, and it was a long time before he fell asleep.

+++

Brendon was disappointed to discover that Ryan was a junior.  
  
"Are you saying I look underage?"  
  
"No, it's not that." Brendon struggled. "I guess I thought we'd be in the same class?"  
  
"Dude." Ryan bumped shoulders with him. Brendon was starting to like it a _lot_ when he did that, so he bumped back. "Why do you think I wanted you to sign up for drama club?"  
  
"And here I was thinking you were being all, like, altruistic about it."  
  
"Big words from a little guy," said Ryan. "You're so smart, you should skip a grade. Then you could tutor me in history."  
  
"Why, do you suck at it?"  
  
Ryan's lips flattened - it was _almost_ a smile. "Let's just say I have fundamental issues with the subject."  
  
"Oh." Brendon shrugged. "I like history. People are interesting, aren't they?"  
  
"Some of them," murmured Ryan. "Here's your music class, room eighteen."  
  
The name rang a bell. "Is that anywhere near room nineteen?"  
  
"It's right beside it. But that's the chaplain's office -"  
  
"Yeah, I have to meet with him."  
  
"Why? You've only been here a night. You couldn't have got someone pregnant _already_."  
  
"What?" Oh damn. Blush time. How did you casually drop into the conversation that you were a virgin who'd never even kissed anyone?  
  
"That's the only reason people go to the chaplain," explained Ryan. "Or when they need bereavement counselling - oh. Sorry. Did someone die?"  
  
Brendon shook his head. "My parents want me to meet him. I guess they're a little worried about my soul. It's not like there'll be any home schoolers coming out here."  
  
"Wait, rewind. What? And what? Your soul?"  
  
"I'm Mormon," sighed Brendon. "Possibly I should have mentioned this before, but it's a bit of a conversation killer. So, bye, I have to go save myself from eternal damnation."  
  
"Mr Waterstone won't save you from eternal damnation," said Ryan. "He couldn't save someone from drowning in two feet of water. Trust me."  
  
"You know, that sounds like something Jesus would say?" Brendon smirked. "Listen, there's no way I'm phoning my mom without doing this first. And if I don't phone, she'll assume I've died and you'll be attending my funeral before you can say 'resurrection.' Okay?"  
  
"You have a very complicated life," said Ryan.  
  
"Not really. Life is simple," said Brendon. "It's what comes after that worries so many people. I'll catch you after class?"  
  
"G four," said Ryan. "Drama club, five o'clock. And if you're not there, _I'll_ call your mom."  
  
He walked off with both hands stuck in his back pockets. It gave a sway to his gait, and the fact that the school pants were so close-fitting only accentuated - nothing. They accentuated nothing because Brendon wasn't looking, he was knocking on Mr Waterstone's door without even one glance over his shoulder.  
  
Sounds of scuffling inside the room stopped Brendon from just walking away, even as the minutes ticked by. At length, the door opened. No one appeared, so Brendon stepped over the threshold and said, "Hello?"  
  
"In here." The voice was muffled because, Brendon saw, its owner was buried face-first in a huge trunk. The room was an almighty mess from an 1800s time warp. All the books were thick, leather-bound and gilt-lettered. And they were everywhere: piled on tables, propping up the desk, gathering dust and bluebottles on the windowsill. The curtains were velvet swags, the wallpaper was a violent paisley, and the desk-chair had hairy buttons in it.   
  
"Good morning." A mad and benevolent face popped out of the trunk. Corkscrew curls cartwheeled in all directions. "May I help you? Do you have an appointment I've forgotten about?"  
  
"No. Sorry." Brendon stuck out his hand. Mr Waterstone regarded it with interest. "My name is Brendon Urie. I'm new. My parents wanted me to, I guess, make contact with you? As the school chaplain, you're the nearest I have to a church elder."  
  
"And what church is that?" Mr Waterstone plopped down on the half-open trunk, crunching papers in its lid. "Please, sit down." He gestured towards the hairy button chair, the only one in the room. Brendon gingerly sat down, half-expecting to be eaten.   
  
"The Church of the Latter Day Saints," said Brendon, and added, "I'm Mormon." People didn't always connect the two.  
  
"Ah yes, I'm aware of it," said Mr Waterstone. "They have some things in common with the Seven Day Aventists, I believe."  
  
"Oh yeah?"  
  
"Hmm, indeed. Well, I am not an elder in the LDS. I'm not exactly affiliated to any specific Christian religion, unless it's to all of them. A girl last year wished me to hear her confession - Catholic, you know. I told her the same thing I'll tell you: I am always ready and willing to listen. But I can't offer you absolution, nor can I offer you true religious guidance. For that, you'll need to consult your own wisdoms. However -" he beamed, and it lit up his face. Brendon realised he was smiling back. "- an friendly ear is often the best source of comfort. Is anything troubling you right now?"  
  
An image flashed across Brendon's mind: the same one that had kept him up for hours last night. It had Ryan's face and Bert's breathy moans, and remembering it even now made Brendon's stomach clench.  
  
"No," he said brightly. "My parents will be happy we've talked, that's the main thing."  
  
"Is it?" said Mr Waterstone. When Brendon just smiled, Mr Waterstone said, "Well, my door is always open. But you, I think, have class now." To frame his words, the bell clanged.  
  
"Thanks, Mr Waterstone," said Brendon, jumping up - not without relief.  
  
"It's my pleasure, Brendon," said Mr Waterstone. "Call again whenever you like."  
  
 _Yeah_ , thought Brendon, _like when hell freezes over._ But he smiled his 'for the camera' smile and went to class.  
  
+++  
  
Brendon had been prepared for a hard slog during the first few days - or weeks, or months - of his time at St Jude's. The reality, while just as exhausting, was a little different.  
  
For one thing, the atmosphere was pretty relaxed. That might have been unique to the freshman and sophomore classes, or the after-effect of the holidays. A lot of people talked about the Swiss Alps and Reykjavík, but a reassuringly equal number talked about Vermont and Colorado. Brendon hadn't been to any of them, so he kept his head down during those conversations.   
  
Quite a few people said 'hi' and smiled at him. Patrick introduced him to someone called Pete, with the reassuring rider that 'if he does something, like, fucking _insane_ , don't worry; it's just Pete.' He also hunted down a girl called Ashlee to sit with Brendon in chemistry and waved away Brendon's objections.   
  
"Don't worry, Pete won't think you're hitting on her," he said seriously. "He's not weirdly possessive like Ryan."  
  
"Ryan's weirdly possessive?"  
  
"Well, he writes songs about his ex-girlfriends," said Patrick. "Come to think of it, so does Pete. Okay, they're both weirdly possessive, but you could totally take Pete. _Ashlee_ can take Pete and she's basically tiny. Except for the hair."  
  
Apart from this unfair (Brendon thought) slur on Ryan's character, Patrick was a good guy. They bonded mainly in their first class, which Brendon coasted through. All that time locked in his room, writing scraps of songs, apparently paid off. Not to mention that Patrick was impressed, although - "Don't mention this to Pete, okay? Not unless you want to be chain-ganged into writing songs for him at three in the morning. He's already got me doing it. I don't want to see another man go down."  
  
Actually, Brendon detected a hint of possessiveness in Patrick's tone - but that was okay. Brendon totally got that. Besides, they ran into Pete between classes and Brendon was left with the impression of a small whirlwind of jumbled words and jabby fists. Patrick was _welcome_ (and Ryan was hotter. Objectively speaking).  
  
Ryan waved to him at lunch but didn't come over, and Brendon didn't even feel desolate. He was surrounded by Patrick and Keltie and Ashlee, as well as Patrick's friends Joe and Andy. Joe was a not-so-secret Harry Potter fan, and Brendon spent most of the lunch hour dissecting the books with him. Joe thought Harry and Hermione should have got together; Brendon thought he was crazy. It was the first lunch Brendon had enjoyed since grade school and swapping pixie sticks.  
  
After school, he went upstairs to get changed. It was interesting, spending a whole day at school and never being judged - or judging - on the basis of clothes and shoes and accessories. But now it was crunch time. Melanie's hour of triumph (or disaster) loomed.  
  
Bert beat him to it: he was lolling on the bed with two other guys. Brendon recognised them from yesterday. One had a dyed-red, straight-ironed fringe and the other, lank black hair and a turned-up nose. The curtains were tightly drawn and a sweet, clinging smell filled the room. Brendon coughed and waved a hand in front of his face.  
  
"Sorry, little dude," said Bert, in a tone of lax guilt. All three pulled their hands out from under the bedcovers, holding limp cigarettes. Brendon wasn't stupid: he knew what a joint was. Admittedly, this was mainly from the cautionary lectures in health class. "Thought you were the narcs."  
  
"Yes, because nothing about this situation looked suspicious at all," said Brendon dryly. "Also, you might set the bed on fire."  
  
"Covered," said the lank-haired one hoarsely. He gestured to a wastebin full of water.  
  
"Yeah, it's not like it'd be the first time," giggled the other boy.   
  
"Brendon, these are my homies, Gee and Fiero." Bert took a deep drag, giving Fiero time to slap his arm and squeak, " _Don't_ call me Fiero!"  
  
"Hey." Brendon essayed a wave. Gee waved back. "So, I'm. Gonna get changed now."  
  
Bert gestured with his spliff. "Don't let us stop you."  
  
"The human body is a beautiful work of art," said Gee earnestly. "You shouldn't be ashamed of it."  
  
"Gee," said Bert, "shut the fuck up."  
  
" _You_ shut up, dickface."  
  
"Hey, kid," said Fiero. "Open the cupboard doors. It kind of makes a, you know. Dressing room thing."  
  
"You're only encouraging him in his repression," said Gee, with a reproving expression.  
  
"Dude, he's blushing. I'm embarrassed _for_ him."  
  
Brendon picked up his clothes and did as Fiero suggested, mentally deciding to change in the bathroom from then on. At least the showers were big roomy stalls with hooks for towels: he didn't think he could have handled a communal set-up.  
  
He was conscious of the fact that anyone on Bert's bed just had to crane their neck a little to get a view of his naked ass. Their conversation revolved around two people called Mikey and Alicia. It floated over Brendon's head as he struggled into his jeans and tried to remember if they'd fit in the store.  
  
There was a mirror behind the door. Brendon eyed himself sideways as he put away his uniform, hoping it wasn't obvious. He thought he looked okay. He usually bummed around in hoodies and jeans and sneakers. The only difference now was that the hoodie was lavender, the jeans were skin-tight and the sneakers had little stars on them.   
  
He crossed back to his bed to fetch his new glasses. Lack of sleep and the early start meant he'd forgotten to wear them that day, reaching instinctively for his old black ones. The red frames felt cold and unmistakeably new on his nose.  
  
"I don't know what you were worried about," said Bert. "I didn't see any disfiguring birthmarks."  
  
Brendon flushed. "You _looked_?"  
  
"Ha, your face," said Bert gleefully, which, unfortunately, wasn't a 'no.' "Speaking of." He sat up and started stripping off his school sweater, which was Brendon's cue to leave.  
  
Gee floated off the bed and caught Brendon by the shoulders before he could escape. Up close, Gee did not smell particularly good. There were hints of eau de sweat and old sock mixed in with the pungent scent of pot. Gee brought his face closer until their foreheads were touching. Brendon's eyes crossed.  
  
"Don't be ashamed, little flower," he whispered.   
  
"Did you just call -"  
  
"You are a wondrous child of the universe," said Gee. He kissed the bridge of Brendon's nose; or maybe he licked it - it was pretty wet. "Also, you have a great ass. Here, have a brownie."  
  
"You looked too?"  
  
"We all did," said Fiero, cackling. "First rule: never turn your back when you change." He paused. "Actually, that's not right. That's so, so wrong."  
  
"Are you saying there's something wrong with dick?" demanded Gee. Brendon made his escape while they thrashed out the argument. It kind of sounded like blowjobs would be involved. He looked down at the small, crumbling square Gee had pushed into his hand. There were no bins in sight, so he just shoved it into his mouth. It tasted more gingery than Brendon liked. By the time he reached G four, he was wondering if Gee had used gone-off milk in his baking, because he felt dizzy and strange.  
  
Ryan was wearing his bowler hat again, this time with a silk flower stuck through the band. The first thing Brendon did was go up to him and bat it, giggling. It seemed like the thing to do.   
  
Ryan's face went through a whole flipbook of expressions before settling on astonishment. "Oh my - have you been smoking up?"  
  
"I like your flower," said Brendon dreamily. He reached for it, but Ryan grabbed his wrist. Brendon felt himself forced into a chair. Spencer's face appeared in his side view.  
  
"Spencer Smith!" he cried. "Spencer Smith the fifth. Spencer Smith, don't you think Ryan's flower is awesome?"  
  
"That depends," said Spencer. "Are we talking metaphors here? Because I gotta tell you, that ship has sailed -"  
  
"Fucking shut up, oh my god. Who gave you the pot?"  
  
"He's got pot?" said Spencer.  
  
"Who's got pot?" asked Gabe, strolling in arm in arm with Jon.   
  
"I have," said Jon.  
  
"Well, duh," said Spencer.   
  
"Did you give Brendon pot?" demanded Ryan, turning on Jon. "He's Mormon! He's - oh, this is just great."  
  
"I didn't give him any," said Jon, sounding injured. He looked at Gabe, who looked back and pulled a face. "Did I?"  
  
"Don't ask me, I was baked all afternoon," said Gabe. "Maybe it was that purple ostrich I saw. It wanted to talk to me about the cobra. Did I ever tell you about my cobra?"  
  
"Shut the fuck up about your cobra," said Ryan dangerously. "I will fucking cut you, I swear."  
  
"Who do you think you are - Vicky?" said Gabe. "You know she's not allowed near knives anymore."  
  
"Did someone say my name? And by someone, I mean 'it better not be you, Gabriel.'" Vicky stomped into the room in a very short dress and eighteen-hole black docs painted with whiteout unicorns. Gabe made a sort of spluttering noise.  
  
"You have such pretty legs, Victoria," he said, with such hopelessness it sounded like he was expecting the punch to the gut that he did, in fact, get.  
  
"God, Jon," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Starting early, aren't we? Can't you at least wait till the meeting's over? Or bake brownies?"  
  
"It wasn't _me_ ," said Jon. "I resent this suspicion because, you know, I didn't do it. Whatever it was."  
  
Brendon giggled. He tugged Ryan down by a scarf and said, "Hey, guess what. Guess what my secret is."  
  
"What?" sighed Ryan.  
  
"Gee kissed me on the _nose_." Brendon pointed, in case Ryan hadn't caught that part. "Right there."  
  
Ryan's frown cleared just as Spencer said, "He's rooming with Bert, remember?"  
  
"Holy shit," said Ryan. "Contact high. Unless - you didn't eat anything Bert gave you, did you?"  
  
"Bert _peeked_ ," said Brendon with grave disapproval.  
  
"I'll take that as a yes," said Ryan. "Probably. Gabe, go to the hall and get some milk."  
  
"Why me?" protested Gabe.  
  
"Oh, let's see if I can remember - 'please, please, let me in the drama club, I'll do anything!'" Ryan crossed his arms. "This is anything."  
  
Gabe shuffled off grumbling, still rubbing his stomach. Brendon beamed up at Ryan. He felt slightly woozy, and his hand was still tangled in Ryan's poncho. He tugged and Ryan sort of fell sideways into the armchair.   
  
"Ryan," whispered Brendon, "I really _love_ your flower."  
  
"Here." Ryan plucked the flower from his hat and tucked it behind Brendon's ear. "Now shut up."  
  
Brendon beamed and snuggled into Ryan's arm. Vicky kicked his foot. "Nice threads," she said. "Where're they from, the little girl's section?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Cut it out," said Ryan.  
  
"What? Isn't that where you shop too?" Vicky smirked. "A match made in -"  
  
"Actually, these jeans are Keltie's," said Ryan. "Now _cut it out_."  
  
A cold hand of sobriety slapped Brendon's face at the word Keltie. "Uh. Uh, I don't feel so good."  
  
"You gonna throw up?" asked Ryan.  
  
"No. Yes. Maybe?"  
  
"Spencer, get him to the bathroom," sighed Ryan. "I need to have a little talk with Bert and Co."  
  
"What about the club?" protested Vicky.  
  
"Greta isn't here yet and neither are her cookies," said Ryan. "Go do homework or something."  
  
"Don't go," mumbled Brendon, but between Vicky's expletives, Jon's continuing poor-me saga, Ryan's comebacks and Spencer's grunts as he attempted to lever Brendon out of the chair, no one heard.  
  
+++  
  
"So that was a crummy start to this," said Brendon, his face flat against the cold porcelain.   
  
"But memorable," said Spencer. He was holding Brendon's glasses. He'd offered to hold Brendon's hair too, but Brendon wasn't that feeble. He'd have let Ryan hold his hair. On the other hand, he wouldn't have let Ryan come in, because gross, vomit.  
  
The outer door screamed open and closed with a giant crash. "Hello, little mousies," said Gabe, his voice more booming than usual. Brendon blamed the bathroom-tile acoustics. "Sharing a stall, I see. Won't Ross be jealous?"  
  
"Did you bring the milk?" called Spencer. He opened the stall door. Instead of waiting outside it like a normal person, Gabe crowded in next to Spencer. His day-glo Vans poked Brendon in the leg.  
  
"Wow," he said, sounding overly interested, "that's, like - do you think it's dysentery?"  
  
"No." Spencer grabbed the glass from Gabe's hand and crouched down. "Here. This might settle your stomach."  
  
"Thanks." Brendon took the glass in both hands and had a cautious taste. He was the object of Gabe's intense attention for a whole five seconds, before Gabe turned the full wattage on Spencer.  
  
"So Ross is going to string up Bert by his toenails," said Gabe conversationally. "I think there will be blood. I don't think it will be Bert's."  
  
"He said he was going to _talk_ to him," said Spencer.  
  
"Sure, yeah." Gabe propped one leg against the wall, which shuddered. "But you know how it is with damsels in distress. You start out with peace-talks and end up with fisticuffs at dawn. Only, in Ross' case it'd be, like," he sniggered, "girlish flailing at dawn."  
  
"You're just lucky Vicky can't come in here," said Spencer. "I gotta go find him before Finch does." He did a manly-punch thing to Brendon's shoulder, only softer. "You stay here until you feel better. I'll check on you once I'm sure Ryan's still alive, okay?"  
  
"Don't worry about -" But Spencer was already pounding out the door. "It," finished Brendon. He sipped his milk.  
  
"Are you gonna throw up again?" asked Gabe.  
  
"I hope not." Brendon squinted at Gabe. It was a long way up and made his neck hurt. "Are you into that or something?"  
  
"Hell yeah," said Gabe. "I'm totally hardcore. Speaking of which, toenails. I'm gonna jet. Don't die, okay."  
  
"I'll try," said Brendon. Gabe darted away, a huge neon dragonfly.  
  
When he was sure the coast was clear, Brendon took the silk flower out of his kangaroo pocket and twirled it. He had a sizzling headache; his stomach felt empty and torn. But his overpowering feeling was shame. He'd made a total ass of himself, for once not on purpose.   
  
At a loose end, he wandered back to G four, empty glass in hand. The room was completely deserted. Brendon wondered if he should go after the others. Then he remembered he was the cause of Ryan's possible fight to the death and decided his presence would only make things worse.   
  
G four was in the old wing of the school. There were fat cherubs leering from every corner of the ceiling and a huge, ornate marble fireplace. The furniture was the sort Brendon had seen through the windows of antique stores, but battered and frayed. All the armchairs were leaking stuffing, and the patterned carpet bore the faint marks of muddy shoes. Brendon liked it.  
  
He put the glass down on a teetering table, which was stacked high with sheet music. Brendon started to flip through it when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something that made his breath catch. He immediately abandoned the music and ran over.   
  
The keys were yellow with age; one of the legs was propped up on a bundle of old newspapers. It was still the most beautiful thing Brendon had ever seen, _and_ \- as he discovered by rippling out a scale - perfectly in tune.  
  
There was no proper piano stool, but Brendon dragged over a spindly chair that was about the right height. He hummed to himself as he played a D scale in thirds, thinking out what he could play by memory. He settled on the Entertainer, played it twice for the fun of it, and followed it up with Chopin's Minute Waltz. He reached the _sostenuto_ middle section before a slight cough gave away his audience.   
  
Brendon's fingers automatically slipped. He snatched his hands away from the keyboard and rubbed his mouth with them, feeling his skin prickle all over.  
  
"Don't _stop_ ," said Ryan.  
  
"Sorry, I didn't know if I was allowed to play this or not -"  
  
"Are you kidding?" Ryan advanced into the room. He'd been leaning against the doorjamb for God knew how long. He wasn't noticeably bloody or dead. "I totally have to show you the proper music rooms. This is only for when we put on musicals or whatever. Why didn't you say something?"  
  
"Like what?" Brendon felt a little snappish. He thumbed a C sharp, putting on just enough pressure to ring out a shallow note.   
  
"'Hi, I'm Brendon and I'm a musical genius' would have been a good start." Ryan sat down beside Brendon without asking permission, his leg flush against Brendon's thigh. "Play something else, Sam."  
  
"I'm not that good," said Brendon. "I'm mean, I'm _okay_ , but genius is taking it a bit far. Hey, what happened with Bert?"  
  
"I couldn't find him," said Ryan. "You know, you should ask about switching off rooms. It was fine when Bert was with that space-case Quinn, but if it makes you uncomfortable -"  
  
"Yeah, maybe." Brendon played a trill. "Look, it's fine. Don't worry about it."  
  
Ryan was silent for a minute. Brendon absently traced his fingers over the keys, playing without sound. "I like your glasses, by the way," said Ryan eventually.   
  
Brendon whipped around and almost broke his nose on Ryan's shoulder. "They're new," he said.   
  
"They're cool," said Ryan. "Hang on -" He took Brendon's chin in one warm hand and rubbed his finger along Brendon's upper lip. Brendon's brain froze, unable to process whatever Ryan was doing. "You had a milk moustache," Ryan said, with a tiny, tiny smile.  
  
"Oh right." Between blushing and nearly falling off the chair, Brendan felt a bit frazzled. "Gabe brought me milk. I drank it."  
  
"C'mon." Ryan's shoulder nudged Brendon's. "Play me a little tune. I'll even close my eyes if you want."  
  
Brendon was saved from answering by the entrance of a curly-headed blonde girl. She carried a tray covered in a dish-cloth with evident difficulty. Brendon jumped up to help her.  
  
"Thanks," she gasped, once the tray was safely deposited on the table. "Cookies are heavier than they look."  
  
"You're Greta!" Brendon beamed. Keltie and Ashlee and Vicky (in a scary mistress-of-pain way) were all hot, but Greta was adorable. She was wearing a floral-print dress and a cardigan. "I'm Brendon."  
  
" _You're_ Brendon? Aha. I see." Greta's eyes travelled over him slowly and she smiled - a secret sort of smile, but not a mean one. "Yes, Ryan mentioned we'd be getting a new member for the drama club. And Gabe, but Gabe sort of turns up everywhere eventually. Like a fungus."  
  
"Did someone say my name?" Gabe strode through the door, Ryland squashed under one arm. "Greta, my love, allow me to worship you."  
  
"There's no need, I brought enough cookies for everyone," said Greta. "I'm going to fail home ec if I keep using class time for this, but whatever."  
  
"If you give me the recipe, we can trade off days," offered Ryland. "Mr Beckett nearly cried when he tasted my lasagne, so I think I'm good."  
  
"You're a sweetheart." Greta pecked him on the cheek, and he blushed. Gabe frowned.  
  
"No kiss for me?"  
  
Greta sighed. "Fine. Bend down, you big goof." Gabe obediently crouched, and Greta pressed a kiss to his jaw. At that moment, Vicky strode in.  
  
"You're a wanton trollop, Saporta," she said. "Hey Greta, I have some carbolic acid if you want to wash out your mouth." She whipped off the dish-cloth and stuffed two cookies into her mouth.  
  
Brendon sidled up to Greta. She smelled of clean water. "Hey," he said shyly, "do you mind -?"  
  
"Go ahead." Greta smiled and proffered a cheek. Brendon hesitated - he'd only been after a cookie - but Greta's skin was rosy and soft-looking, so Brendon quickly kissed it. And after all, he got his cookie, because Vicky grabbed his hand and stuffed one into it.  
  
"'s 'uckin' _good_ ," she said with her mouth full.  
  
"Do you let everyone kiss you?" whispered Brendon.  
  
"No," Greta whispered back, "only the nice boys."  
  
"Gabe?" said Brendon uncertainly.  
  
"Gabe _is_ nice," said Greta. "He just doesn't know it yet. You, on the other hand, are very sweet. I think Ryan's adopted you. You should let him."  
  
"I already have." Brendon's gaze wandered over to where Ryan was still sitting by the piano, now with Keltie on his knee.   
  
"You might be just what he needs," added Greta.  
  
"Huh?" Brendon wrenched his eyes away. "Sorry, did you say something?"  
  
"Yes." Greta smiled. "Have another cookie."  
  
+++  
  
Brendon still tended to walk fast between classes. He didn't think being late would leave the best impression and he wasn't entirely sure where everything was. So far, rushing had lead to several collisions with open lockers, handrails and - on one painfully memorable occasion - a water fountain. Ryan was endlessly amused when he came across Brendon running full-tilt, tie over his shoulder and hair wild.   
  
"Take it easy," he warned. "People tend to be more breakable than doors."  
  
It was a prophetic warning: the very next day Brendon went round a corner a little too fast and bashed the shoulder of a boy standing nearby. It was a small bump, really, but Brendon was already babbling apologies when the boy turned around.  
  
The boy was short, but his friends were tall. More than that; they loomed. Brendon felt an uncomfortably familiar twist of the gut and tried to brush it off.   
  
"Who are you?" asked the boy, cutting through Brendon's last, breathless sentence.  
  
"I'm Brendon Urie," said Brendon. "Um. Hi."  
  
"You're new." It wasn't a question. The boy's eyes raked over Brendon, from the black lace-ups he'd had for years to the tie that had once belonged to someone called Ray Toro. A smile spread across the boy's face. He opened his arms so that the pile of books he was carrying splattered on the floor. "Pick up my books."  
  
"What?" Brendon was pretty sure where the boy was going with this, but there was always a chance -  
  
"I said, pinkie, pick up my books," the boy repeated. "You made me drop them, running into me like that." One of his friends casually cracked his knuckles.   
  
Or not. "Right," said Brendon. He bent his knees.  
  
"Wait," said the boy. Brendon felt a flash of hope, immediately doused. "You haven't apologised yet. For making me drop my books."  
  
"I -"  
  
"I hope you're not going to _argue_ , pinkie," said the boy sweetly.  
  
"No," said Brendon in defeat. He crouched down and scooped up as many books as he could. The boy lazily flicked a toe at one, sending it scooting across the corridor. With a sigh, Brendon tucked the ones he had under his arm and went after it.  
  
"Brendon?" Ryan's voice. Oh, god. The last person Brendon would ever want to witness his humiliation just _had_ to be passing.  
  
"Hi," said Brendon tightly. "Don't you have class?"  
  
"Don't you?" countered Ryan.   
  
"Pinkie," called the boy, "I didn't ask you to take my fucking books for a _walk_."  
  
Brendon pressed his lips together and crossed the corridor without looking at Ryan. "Here."  
  
"I'm still waiting for my apology," said the boy, not taking the books.  
  
"Hey Chris," said Ryan, over Brendon's shoulder. Brendon winced. "I thought you'd been shot by state troopers?"  
  
"What?" said Chris.  
  
"No, wait," said Ryan, "that was just a nice dream I had." He yanked the books out of Brendon's arms and threw them at Chris' legs. He yelped. "Funny, I thought you _were_ on probation for bullying. Or was that another dream?"  
  
Chris snapped his fingers; his two lackeys whipped up his books. "See you round, pinkie," he said, with soft venom.  
  
"Watch out," called Ryan, "I hear they shoot on sight now." His face twitched in grim satisfaction as Chris walked away, a little faster than necessary.   
  
Brendon hunched his shoulders, burning up in shame. Ryan bumped against him before catching sight of his face.  
  
"Hey, hey," he said. "Don't let him get to you. What were you doing anyway, picking up his books?"  
  
"It's ..." Brendon hesitated. "It's just easier to do what they say."  
  
"They?"  
  
Brendon shrugged and turned away.  
  
"Listen, that shithead used to pick on Spencer too," said Ryan fiercely. "Spencer gets _noble_ sometimes, and he didn't tell me for ages. Just 'cause Chris is the tenth de Majola and his father, like, owns Argentina doesn't mean he's better than you. Or anyone. Except maybe maggots."  
  
"What happened?" asked Brendon. "With Spencer?"  
  
"It all came out when I found him writing essays for Chris," said Ryan. "That was fun - Chris nearly flunked the year when I maybe let Miss Finch know. Also, I think Gabe sat on him for a while."  
  
Brendon managed a small smile. Ryan squeezed his arm gently, just once. The day suddenly felt warmer. "Don't think you have to _endure_ that kind of treatment, okay? Just because you're not some inbred blueblood. Or for any reason. You can't let him think he can get away with it - that's half the problem."  
  
"Thanks," said Brendon.  
  
"Speaking of crazy, how are you getting on with Bert?"  
  
"Oh," said Brendon, "fine. He's, like - loud, and stuff. But he's not a bad guy. You don't like him much, huh."  
  
"He called Spencer fat in the seventh grade," said Ryan fiercely. "You don't just forget shit like that."  
  
"Obviously," Brendon murmured. He felt Ryan's hand on his arm for a long time, even when they'd parted ways to go to class.  
  
+++  
  
Brendon twirled the phone cord around his finger, letting his mother talk on. She was in the middle of relating a fascinating story about Mrs Zuckerman's cat. Brendon was a fan of cats in general, but Mrs Zuckerman's were devil spawn with claws. Plus, his quarters were running down pretty fast.   
  
"So how are things you with you, honey?" asked Mrs Urie. Brendon, who in the meantime had become absorbed in the drawings Gee had done on one of his chucks, jolted back to the conversation.  
  
"Oh, fine," he said. "Patrick and I got an A for our music project - remember, I told you about it? We had to compose a mini film score. And Ashlee and I are still doing experiments in chem." He carefully neglected to mention the previous day's exploits, which included Ashlee's exploding soap.  
  
"Ashlee, Ashlee," said Mrs Urie. "That's - Ryan's girlfriend?"  
  
"No, Ryan's girlfriend is Keltie." Brendon frowned and irritably swatted the cords of his hoodie. He hated when one of them got way longer than the other. "Ashlee is Pete's girlfriend."  
  
"Oh." Brendon wasn't imagining the disappointment in her voice. "And you aren't having any problems like before?"  
  
"You mean bullying?" Brendon spoke too loudly. A smacking noise made him jump, but it was only the leafless branches of a tree hitting the window.  
  
"Yes, that. Stephen, go all the way out. He's in the house. Oh, Brendon, I've got to go."  
  
Brendon spotted a flicker of bright purple. "Okay, bye Mom." He hung up just in time: Gabe's long arm snuck over his shoulder and grabbed the handset as the dial tone buzzed.  
  
"Hello? Hello? There's no one there. Have you been scaring off 1800 numbers again?"  
  
"Oh, is that that time? Goodnight." Brendon walked away as the bell began to clang lights-out.   
  
"Not so fast, mousie." Gabe spun around and attached his paw to Brendon's arm. In one impressive move, he swung Brendon bodily over his shoulder.   
  
"What are you doing? Put me _down_!" Brendon drummed his fists against Gabe's back, although not very hard: if Gabe dropped him on his head right now, he'd _die_.  
  
"Patience, young grasshopper," droned Gabe. " _Damn_ , you're heavy. What are you packing in those tiny pants, bundles of rocks?"  
  
"Froot Loops, actually," sighed Brendon, resigned to his fate.  
  
They didn't go very far - clearly Gabe's back wasn't up to the challenge. Just up a short flight of stairs, three doors down to the right -  
  
"This is Ryan's suite," said Brendon. He'd only been there twice, but he remembered it with crystal clarity.  
  
"Can't get a thing past you," panted Gabe. He turfed Brendon over his shoulder and rocked back on his heels. Brendon stumbled into the door, which wasn't latched, so he literally fell across the doorstep. It wasn't exactly the entrance he'd imagined making to Ryan's party - because it was a party. There was music and bowls of chips and bottles of definitely-not-soda and _people making out_ -  
  
"I got him," said Gabe to the room at large. "One owner from new. See?" He prodded Brendon in the back. "Shiny."  
  
To be fair, Brendon was fairly shiny today. Gee had taken a glitter pen to Brendon's shoes at some point when Brendon wasn't there to strangle him first. Considering the tiny space and the tools he had to work with, the drawings were pretty sweet. Brendon just hoped what he thought was a dragon actually was a dragon, and not Gee's idea of sex ed. Co-ordinating laundry was also something Brendon had trouble with, so he ended up borrowing from Spencer a lot. Today's t-shirt was a washed-out lilac with a unicorn on the front, which both Spencer and Brendon decided belonged to Spencer's sister and was in his wardrobe by mistake.  
  
"Stop molesting him," said Ryan. Gabe gave a huge indignant snort, but was quickly distracted by tortilla dip. Ryan rolled his eyes.   
  
Brendon stood stock still in the doorway, _staring_. Ryan and Keltie were cuddled into the same armchair, which wasn't unusual for them. Ryan's loose-lipped _grin_ , his flushed face and wrinkled shirt, on the other hand - they were all pretty unusual. Downright unique, in fact. Brendon gulped and wondered if he was too sparkly to make his escape unseen.  
  
"Brendon!" Spencer's greeting broke into his thoughts. "C'mere. I need your help."  
  
"Okay," said Brendon. Anything to get away from Ryan's melty limbs and the way he was nuzzling Keltie's neck - although the study room he shared with Brent wasn't exactly spacious, so there was a limit to how far away Brendon could get. The other side of the room, where Spencer was lolling on a desk, was the best he could do.  
  
"Ryland's kicking my ass here," complained Spencer.  
  
"Well, if you'd stop trying to spell with a myspace dictionary..." said Ryland. Brendon peered over his shoulder.  
  
"You guys are playing _Scrabble_?"   
  
"Nonono." Spencer waved his hands, almost taking Brendon's eye out. "It's _Action_ Scrabble. Like, if you get a triple-word score, you drink three shots."  
  
"And despite that," said Ryland, "he's still drunk."  
  
"Yeah, I'm losing kind of badly." Spencer sighed. "But vodka makes everything better."  
  
"As long as you _cheat_ ," muttered Ryland.  
  
"You are wise, my friend." Jon threw his arms around Spencer's neck, not noticing how he crushed Spencer's windpipe in the process. "You know what's even better than vodka?"  
  
"Bob Dylan's early work?" said Ryland. Jon eyeballed him. "Oh, sorry. Silly of me to expect something original." He drifted chips-ward.  
  
"He's just mad because Gabe won't let him have any," whispered Jon. "Gabe's wise too. Remember that time he superglued chips to every faculty member's car and blamed it on Gabe?"  
  
"Kind of ... dying, here," choked Spencer. Jon let him go and smiled at Brendon.  
  
"Do you want - oh, right, no. Mormon," he said, before Brendon could open his mouth. Brendon didn't want pot - of course he didn't want pot - but it was still annoying when people just assumed that without asking.   
  
Warm, sugary breath on his ear made him jump. "Hey, hey." Ryan's hand lingered on the bare skin between his t-shirt and jeans for a long second. "You look kinda skittish. Oh - I got you something."  
  
"What?" asked Brendon, but Ryan's long fingers were already around his wrist and tugging. He followed Ryan over to the second desk, which was piled high with cans of beverages. He tried not to notice the smeared lipstick around Ryan's mouth. Keltie was a beautiful girl and she and Ryan were happy together; Brendon just couldn't understand where all this anger was coming from.   
  
Ryan plopped a soda can into Brendon's arms, with the expression of someone who'd just invented cheese. "Red Bull," Brendon read off the label. "Uh. Thanks?"  
  
"I figured you wouldn't want to drink beer, so I laid in extra soda," said Ryan. His smile was wide and sloppy. Brendon preferred it when only he could see it. "You've never had Red Bull, right?"  
  
Brendon shook his head, rolling the can between his palms. "Thanks," he said. "I - yeah. That's nice of you."  
  
"I didn't want you to feel left out." Ryan wrapped an arm around Brendon's shoulder and hugged him close. Brendon closed his eyes in confused-happy agony. "It took _for ever_ to get this party organised. I don't know, it's like people are really tired or something." He laughed, though Brendon couldn't see what was so funny about exhaustion. "Are you gonna drink that or what?"  
  
"I -" Brendon was torn. He wanted to drink the soda - not just for Ryan's sake, but for his own. On the other hand, he'd made a bargain with God to get here. And he was, as Jon so rightly pointed out, Mormon. The no-caffeine rule was part of the deal. "Um."  
  
"Oh, there's Vicky. Vicky!" yelled Ryan. He gave Brendon a parting squeeze and left him to try to high-five Vicky, an attempt that ended in resounding failure. Brendon quickly snapped the tab and tipped half the can into an empty beer bottle. It was still wrong, but it was less wrong than drinking it.  
  
Within a few more minutes, the little study was crammed to capacity. The few available chairs seated at least three each, while most people lounged on the floor on duvets dragged from the adjoining bedroom. Brendon barely heard the intercom squalling "Final call, lights-out!"  
  
"Hey." Brendon tapped Greta on the shoulder. She was a little flushed, her eyes over-bright. "Isn't this, like, against the rules?"  
  
"Oh, sure it is," she agreed. "But Finch doesn't check up on Sundays. It's kind of given that we can stay up late, so long as we don't disturb anyone too much. And half the floor is in here, so..."  
  
"Right," said Brendon. It was his first party. He decided he preferred the other times when the group got together. For one thing, there was always an aim in mind - whether it was Ryan pestering him to play the piano before everyone else arrived, or the more general purposes of the drama club and the Music Appreciation Club and the music society, which Brendon had joined on his own. For another, people weren't drunk. Now everyone was drunk, or if they weren't drunk they were getting there. Ryan wasn't the only one sloppily making out with his girlfriend. Only Gabe looked as uncomfortable as Brendon felt, and that was just because Vicky had recently kneed him in the groin.   
  
It didn't take Gabe long to bounce back, though, which was why, for him, any punishment was more a retardant than a deterrent. "Spin the bottle time!" he yelled, twirling an empty Coors Light between his fingers.   
  
"I claim Patrick!" said Pete. He abandoned Ashlee to wrap his arms around Patrick's middle. Patrick blushed and pushed him away although not, Brendon noted, with any real force. Ashlee took out a compact and reapplied her lipgloss.  
  
"I don't think you _quite_ understand the rules of this game," said Gabe.  
  
"I'm gonna weight the bottle," said Pete. "Yo, give it here."  
  
"Again with the _this is not the rules_ ," said Gabe. "Maybe you'll get really lucky and land on your girlfriend."  
  
"What's the point of that? I can kiss her anytime."  
  
"Not for another twenty minutes," called Ashlee, waving the lipgloss. "I want to get my money's worth."  
  
"C'mon, c'mon!" Gabe herded people into the centre of the room. He had a long reach, so people quickly stopped trying and failing to evade him.   
  
"Sit by me." Spencer pulled Brendon's elbow so hard he sat down with a thump. "I need the moral support."  
  
"Okay." Brendon rubbed his funny bone. Clearly bowing out was not an option. He'd just have to pray the bottle didn't land on him. He wasn't sure where the Book of Mormon stood on kissing games. He had a feeling they hadn't featured greatly in the life of Joseph Smith.   
  
If it never landed on him he'd never have to spin it, and if he didn't spin it he wasn't technically playing, so it didn't count...  
  
"I hope I don't have to spin it," he muttered.  
  
"Me too," said Spencer. "Gabe always accuses you of doing it on purpose. Like, it wasn't _my_ fault I got Ryland three times. It should be renamed Seven Minutes in Hell when he's playing."  
  
"What?" said Brendon. But at that moment Greta asked, "What's the deal if we get a same-sex spin?" and they were both distracted.  
  
Gabe delicately placed the bottle in the centre of the jumbled circle. "None of us are homophobes -" he bared his teeth. "- right? So it shouldn't be a problem."  
  
"Just wanted to be clear," said Greta. "Here, I saved you a space."  
  
"You do love me." Gabe dropped and sprawled beside her. Greta just smiled and shook her head.  
  
"I'm going first," announced Pete, who could always be relied upon to walk straight into the jaws of danger and humiliation. He gave the bottle an almighty spin. It jumped and juddered to a stop, neck pointing towards a blushing Patrick.  
  
"You did weight it, you bastard," accused Gabe. But Pete had already wriggled over to Patrick to plant a wet, open-mouthed kiss on him. He held Patrick's face between both hands, even though it was obvious that Patrick wasn't going anywhere. He did say, 'Urg, spit,' when Pete eventually pulled away, but without much conviction.  
  
Patrick's spin landed on Greta, and Patrick gave her a very chaste kiss on the lips. Greta got Keltie, to the general excitement of the room, and they shared a very long if closed-mouth kiss. Brendon stared at his own hands for most of it, feeling embarrassed without really knowing why.   
  
Keltie spun for Ryan, and Gabe booed. "Get it over with - we've seen enough already."   
  
Ryan flipped him off and kissed Keltie tenderly, his mouth moving slowly on hers. _This_ time, Brendon couldn't look away. _This_ time, it wasn't embarrassment that twisted his breath. It was a far hotter, deeper and more shameful emotion that Brendon completely denied the existence of. At least, until Ryan splayed his long slim fingers on the bottle and spun the neck towards Brendon.  
  
There were a couple of catcalls, and Ryan smirked. That more than anything called up Brendon's fieriest blush. He'd known Ryan to be happy and sad, sulky, angry, pissed-off and serene, but he'd never seen _that_ look before.   
  
Ryan crawled over to him on hands and knees, while Brendon clenched his hands together so tightly the knuckles bloomed white. Brendon wanted to do hundreds of things - break his gaze away from Ryan's, run, kill Gabe - but he just _sat_ , his arms and legs as useful as dried concrete.   
  
Ryan shuffled closer until they were knee to knee. "Don't look so scared," he said in an undertone, but with an unreassuring grin. "I only bite by accident."  
  
"Huh?" Brendon's voice came out all breathy and too high. He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and concentrated on the patch of dry skin just under Ryan's eyebrow.   
  
"Sweet-talking is not part of the game!" called Gabe. "Hurry up, I want a turn."  
  
"You're fucking insufferable," said Ryan. His movements practised and perfunctory, he cupped a hand to the back of Brendon's head and leaned in. His breath fluttered over Brendon's mouth for a brief moment before Ryan's eyelids slid to half mast and he closed the tiny gap.   
  
His lips were slick - from beer, Keltie, naturally, Brendon didn't know. He could hear his own heartbeat, so fast it thrummed. Ryan glided his mouth back and forth over Brendon's, his thumb playing with the bump at the top of Brendon's spine. When he slipped away, after a few seconds and forever, Brendon was shaking. He stuffed his hands under his knees to stop the tremor.  
  
"Wake up, mousie." Gabe clicked his fingers. "Your turn to spin." Beside him, Greta sent Brendon a speculative look.  
  
The shivering in his spine still hadn't died. Brendon just hoped they would blame his weak spin on general lack of coordination. The bottle bumped around a few times and landed back on Brendon.  
  
"That was crap, dude," said Jon. "How can you kiss yourself?"  
  
"Go _again_ ," said Gabe.  
  
Brendon shrugged apologetically and did as he was told. He was slowly regaining control over his own body, so the next spin was much better. It whirled round and round and round, till Brendon was dizzy from following it.  
  
It landed on Ryan  
  
Ryan laughed. His neck. Stretched out and pale. Brendon was mesmerised - didn't hear Gabe telling him to move, didn't comprehend a thing till Spencer poked him. Then realisation crashed in and he awkwardly knee-walked over to Ryan. Ryan's hand was tangled with Keltie's on the floor. Brendon felt his insides burn.  
  
 _Get it over with_ , his brain chanted, something it definitely had in common with Gabe. Brendon didn't bother with his hands - he didn't know what to do with them anyway; he'd never kissed anyone before. Instead he used them to balance himself as he pressed forward. Ryan helpfully came halfway, and their mouths met in an off-centre graze that included a lot of Ryan's cheek and Brendon's nose.  
  
"No way, dude," said Pete. "Second kiss has to have tongues."  
  
"You used tongues on me," said Patrick accusingly.  
  
"That was hardly our first kiss, Trick darling." Pete waggled his eyebrows; Patrick retreated in a huff.   
  
Pete set up the chant and Gabe followed enthusiastically, as did Jon and Ashlee. Keltie giggled, and that was what did it for Brendon. His mind so ablaze he forgot he didn't have a clue what to do, he leaned forward and caught Ryan's mouth mid-smirk. It was slightly parted, which made it easier for Brendon to slide his tongue in. Somewhere far behind him, his brain freaked out.   
  
Ryan made a little 'mff' sound and tilted his head. His fingertips touched Brendon's jaw and guided it to a different - a _better_ angle. Now he could open his mouth wider and breathe deeper, falling into the kiss. His chest was swollen, demanding air, turning every breath into a gasp. It was only when Ryan's tongue brushed against his own that Brendon regained his senses. He jolted back and scraped his hand across his wet, sticky mouth.  
  
"Holy shit, kid," said Pete. "They don't teach you _that_ at Bible camp."  
  
"Sign me up," murmured Gabe. Brendon scrambled to his seat and tried to hide behind Spencer. Spencer was goggling, though, so Brendon let his hair hang forward and used that instead. His cheeks were _so hot_ ; he wanted to press his freezing hands to them, but it would look too obvious.  
  
The chatter in the room was so much white noise under the rushing in his ears. He didn't hear Gabe's groans of dismay or the argument he had with Ryan. All he knew was that, a few minutes later, Ryan stood over him with his hand outstretched.  
  
"What?" said Brendon nervously. Ryan was wearing that look again, that dark smile.  
  
"You coming?" asked Ryan, even as Brendon used his hand to haul himself to his feet. Ryan didn't let go, leading him across the room to the bedroom door while Brendon muttered apologies to all the people he tripped over.  
  
"What is this?" he whispered.  
  
"Seven Minutes in Heaven," said Ryan, and shut the door behind them.  
  
+++  
  
"Oh fuck, my head," groaned Ryan. He flopped backwards on to one of the duvet-less beds, exposing a good three inches of flat, pale belly and smooth peaks of hip. Brendon gnawed his lip raw and hovered near the bookcase. After a few more seconds of teeth-gnashing, Ryan flicked open an eye. "Siddown," he said. "Might as well be comfortable." Brendon sat on the other bed, and Ryan gurgled a laugh. He patted the space next to one of his sprawled legs. "No. Sit _here_."  
  
"What's wrong?" said Brendon. He gingerly perched on the edge of the mattress, trying not to come into contact with any part of Ryan. It was hard: Ryan was gangly and the bed was small.   
  
"Nothing," said Ryan. "I - nah, I won't bother sitting up. The room is kinda spinning, you know? Freaking fairground vertigo effect. You lie down, 'kay."  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
With great patience, Ryan said, "For the kissing section of this evening's entertainment."  
  
"But we already did!" In case Ryan had already forgotten, Brendon added, "Twice!"  
  
"Yeah, and my third spin landed on you, which means seven minutes of making out." Ryan scratched his neck, making his shirt ride up even further. "Sorry - I guess you haven't played this before, right?"  
  
"Never." Brendon put his hand on the bed, next to Ryan's. "Won't Keltie mind?"  
  
"What - _no_. It's only a game. She did seven minutes with Spence three times the last time we played this. And I got Gabe once, which is not anything I'd like to repeat again, ever."  
  
"Oh." Brendon put his hand back in his lap. For some reason, Ryan's explanation only made things worse.  
  
"C'mere," coaxed Ryan. He groped around Brendon's leg until he found his hand again, and used it to pull him down. Brendon's balance, already precarious, failed him entirely: he sprawled across Ryan's chest. The heat of his skin easily overcame two flimsy layers of cloth.   
  
"That's better," said Ryan. He patted Brendon's face with genial drunkenness. "You've got a really pretty mouth. I bet you were real popular at your last school, huh? The, ha, toast of the town."  
  
"Not exactly," said Brendon.   
  
"You're all blushing! How cute." Ryan rubbed circles into the hollow of Brendon's throat. Brendon really, really liked that. It had to be a sin, only - Ryan had said it was a game. Without the intent - without Ryan even _liking_ him that way - what did it mean? "Hey, hey." He slid his hand around Brendon's neck and tugged him down, ear to Ryan's mouth. "Have you ever made out with a guy before?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"You can tell me," whispered Ryan. Damp lips moving against the shell of his ear, and Brendon was _falling_ , fast and headlong into the abyss. "You haven't, have you? I'm your first."  
  
"Yeah." Brendon cleared his throat, but his voice still came out husky. "Yeah."  
  
Ryan's teeth ghosted over his earlobe, and Brendon bit back a shuddering sigh. He twisted his hand in the front of Ryan's shirt and stared at it as he mumbled, "First everything."  
  
"Huh?" Ryan jerked his head back. "You mean you've never - with _anyone_?"  
  
Brendon shook his head. Bits of cloth peeked up between his fingers, pulling at the buttonholes and opening tiny windows of skin. _You idiot_! his mind screamed. _He'll think you're a total loser, you fool, you fool, you fool._  
  
"Oh, man," sighed Ryan. His neck arched on the pillow, his eyes closed, long shadowy sweeps of lashes. Brendon stared and stared. "I'm so sorry. I should have tried to set you up with someone else for your first time. Greta, or even Ashlee - she's so sweet, she would, seriously -"  
  
"It's fine," said Brendon. "It doesn't matter. Only a game, right?"  
  
"It's your _first kiss_ ," stressed Ryan.  
  
"Actually, two kisses ago was my first kiss," said Brendon. "This would make my third. So no pressure."  
  
Ryan touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip as he stared up at Brendon - not smiling, but not frowning either. Of its own volition, Brendon's grip tightened. He yanked Ryan up by his shirt and kissed him roughly. He had no idea, he was probably doing it all wrong, but -  
  
Ryan moaned. He moaned into Brendon's mouth and slid his hands up Brendon's sides, catching and lifting his t-shirt. Brendon could feel bare hot skin against bare hot skin where their hips met. It sent flares shooting up his spine - and down, too, but Ryan was licking into his mouth and that was the important thing.   
  
Brendon's breath hitched as Ryan scraped his fingernails along Brendon's ribs. He was lying bracketed by Ryan's bent knees, which held him tightly in place. Brendon didn't care. He was happy to stroke the prickly strange skin under Ryan's jaw and push his tongue into Ryan's mouth until he couldn't breathe from it. He fisted his hand in Ryan's shirt when Ryan sucked lightly on his lower lip - "You're always biting it - I'll kiss it better" - and accidentally snapped off a button. That didn't matter either, because it was more skin, smooth and hard and Brendon wanted, he _wanted_ -  
  
"Time's up!" Gabe called, swinging on the door handle. Brendon jerked in shock, his tongue still roughly brushing against Ryan's. There was a second of complete serenity, then Brendon rolled away and on to the floor, trying to tug his shirt down. On the bed, Ryan shrugged his crumpled shirt straight and pulled his hands through his messy curls.   
  
"Well, well, well," said Gabe. He eyed Brendon speculatively, his gaze focusing on Brendon's mouth - which was, he realised, hot and sore. "Well, well, _well._ "  
  
"Shut up," snapped Ryan.   
  
"Well," said Gabe, still staring at Brendon. "The worm turns at last."  
  
"What worm?" said Brendon.   
  
"Gabe!" called Ashlee from the next room. "Did _you_ invite Bert?"  
  
"What?" said Gabe and Brendon together. Gabe slid out the door, while Ryan and Brendon followed more slowly. Brendon felt a huge, guilty heat build up behind his eyes. Ryan didn't say a word, but Brendon couldn't be sure if that meant anything, because he didn't dare to look at Ryan's face.  
  
Bert and Gee stood in the centre of the room like two hairy mammoths in a glass case. There was a certain earthiness to their appearance - and odour - that called up tusked beasts and dung heaps.   
  
"You!" Bert pointed at Brendon with his lighter. "You went to a party without inviting your roommate? That's harsh, dude."  
  
"Harsh." Gee nodded.  
  
"Well, I didn't even know I was going to it," hedged Brendon. "It kind of came as a surprise to me, too."  
  
"You look a little rough," said Gee. "What have you been..." His eyes widened to comical proportions and he nudged Bert, giggling. They were high, Brendon realised. They usually were, but it was different seeing it against the backdrop of his drunk but faintly disapproving friends.  
  
"You've been making out!" sing-songed Bert. "Who with - no. Not the Ice Queen. _No_."  
  
"Yeah, hi, my name is _Ryan_."  
  
"I know that, Ice Queen." Bert sent Ryan a withering look. "That's so - so - what's the word I'm thinking of, Gee? Starts with an A."  
  
"Adorable?" snorted Gee, and buried his laugh in Bert's shoulder.   
  
"Close, but no. Um," said Bert. "Ah, ah - appropriate! Yeah, that's it."  
  
"Please, your Earth logic is confusing me," said Ryan dryly. He stepped past Brendon. Their arms brushed, raking up a tumult of sense-memory. Brendon hissed in a shaky breath.  
  
"I mean, Ryan," said Bert, "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan."  
  
"Finally! After only three hundred years, it sinks in."  
  
"No. Ryan. That's the name he -" Bert waved unsteadily at Brendon. "- always moans in his sleep. I forgot, are Mormons allowed to beat off? Or was that just -"  
  
" _Bert_ ," said Gee, "no."  
  
"Yeah, maybe you'd like to shut up now." Ryan's voice was steely. "Or here's a thought: leave."  
  
"What did I say?" said Bert.  
  
"Shit about my friends," said Ryan. "I don't welcome that at my parties, thanks."  
  
"It's not shit," protested Bert. "It's true. Right, Brendon?"  
  
"Hit this jackass' mute button," said Ryan. Each word was clipped. " _Brendon_. Hello?"  
  
"I -" To his horror, Brendon felt himself flush. _The flag of guilt_ , whispered a triumphant part of his brain. Bert and Ryan were both staring at him, as were a number of other people who'd transferred their attention from spin-the-bottle. _You need to say no_ , screamed another part of his brain, the one that had wanted to kiss and kiss and kiss Ryan. _You need to say_ -  
  
"Brendon?" said Ryan again, sounding unsure. And _unhappy_.  
  
Brendon turned and fled.

+++

Fiero was in his bed. Brendon rolled him off without barely a nod to kindness, not even caring when Fiero's head smacked the floor. Brendon lay down fully clothed, dry-eyed and over-heated. He must have slept because he opened his eyes once and Bert was stumbling around - another and Bert was curled up in his own bed with Fiero up against his back - a third and daylight broke through the grimy curtains. Brendon felt itchy, clogged-up, like he was coming down with the flu and had pulled a study all-nighter, all at the same time. Another school day. But not - not, because Brendon's worst secret had been revealed: to himself, and to the rest of the world.  
  
He clattered around the room as he got ready for school. Usually he was more considerate of Bert's sore head - he had taken to visiting Fiero and Gee's room till all hours out of respect to Brendon's sleeping time, doing god knows what. This morning, Brendon didn't care if Bert suffered an aneurysm and died.   
  
At one point Bert cracked open a groggy eye and mumbled, "Hey, did I do something stupid last night?" But he fell back asleep before Brendon could calmly explain that he'd ruined Brendon's life.  
  
If only he'd known - well. He _had_ known that he dreamed about Ryan a lot, and that the dreams left him sticky and gross when he woke up. He also knew that certain things happened when Ryan touched him too much in one day, or if he stared too much at Ryan's throat or hands or mouth, or if he lay in bed thinking of their conversations as he drifted to sleep. But the school nurse had said this sort of thing was normal and could be completely unconnected to whatever caused it. Brendon had just assumed - he'd _hoped_ -  
  
It got worse.  
  
At lunchtime, Brendon was late and ended up sitting with Andy and Bob from his class. They hadn't been at the party and they spent the hour arguing over who deserved the title 'Greatest Drummer in History'. Brendon had nothing to contribute to that, so he ate in silence.  
  
His usual people were one table over. Brendon was too afraid of seeing Spencer's face to try and make contact with them. It didn't occur to him to think it strange that they made no effort either, until dinner time rolled round and he reluctantly joined the table with his tray. He expected some good-natured ribaldry from Gabe, eye-rolling from Spencer and giggles from the girls - except Vicky, who'd probably just stare. He didn't bother trying to hope for anything other than distaste from Ryan, at least for a while.  
  
He didn't expect _silence_.  
  
"Hey," he said, faced with a row of backs that weren't shuffling to accommodate him and a row of blank faces beyond.  
  
"Hello, Brendon," said Greta. She sounded like she had a cold.  
  
"I, uh, I didn't see you at music club," he said to her.   
  
"Yeah, I had detention," she said,  
  
"Seriously?" Brendon's eyes popped. Greta was the ultimate good girl - half the teachers wanted to have her babies. She'd never so much as got extra homework before. "Why?"  
  
"Like you don't know," said Ryan. His voice was always flat, but before Brendon had been able to pick out minute cadences and upswings in it. Now it was just ... dead.  
  
"I wouldn't ask if I did," Brendon pointed out, to Ryan's plate.  
  
"We _all_ have detention, mousie," said Gabe. "Of course, it isn't quite the tragedy for me that it is for every -"  
  
"Jesus," snarled Ryan. He threw down his fork. "Shut the _fuck_ up."  
  
"Is it that time of the month _already_?"  
  
Ryan made an incoherent noise and threw himself across the table. Only Spencer's quick thinking saved Ryan's plate, but the water pitcher was a lost cause. It splashed everyone, including Brendon, who blinked. Gabe edged away from the puddle that was streaming across the wood.   
  
"Fucking - fucking _fuck_ ," said Ryan, and whirled away from the table.  
  
"Yup," said Gabe, "always so articulate, that one."  
  
"Seriously." Greta looked strained. "Can you just leave it for now?"  
  
"For you, my love, anything."  
  
Vicky growled. Brendon looked around in bewilderment. Greta rubbed her forehead, not meeting his eyes. Brendon turned to Spencer, who had his tightest expression on.   
  
"Why do you all have detention?" Brendon whispered, but it came out loud in the deathly quiet.  
  
"We got busted by Finch," said Spencer, continuing with heavy emphasis, "just after you left."  
  
"That sucks -" began Brendon. "Wait. You don't think I -"  
  
"You gotta admit, it doesn't look good," said Gabe.  
  
"I didn't." Brendon shook his head. All the tears that didn't come last night suddenly flooded his eyes. "I didn't, I wouldn't - Spencer -"  
  
Spencer shrugged. "Sorry."  
  
With trembling hands, Brendon carefully put his loaded tray down on the table. He walked away with his head held high, but it felt like his skin was the only thing holding all his broken insides together.  
  
+++  
  
"- and now they think I squealed about the party," sniffled Brendon. He curled himself tighter around the phone. "It doesn't even make sense. I ran away because - because -"  
  
"Because you were embarrassed," Melanie's voice crackled down the line. "Yeah, it's not hugely logical. But look at it from their point of view: you leave, and then their party gets broken up, and they all get punished for it. They probably want someone to blame."  
  
"But they're my friends. At least, I thought they were."  
  
Melanie gave a sigh of static. "It's usually easier to get mad at your friends. You know how to hurt them and get away with it."  
  
"They think they'll get away with this?"  
  
"Would you be friends with them again, if they apologised?"  
  
"Yes," said Brendon instantly. "They're the first friends I've ever ... oh."  
  
"Yeah," said Melanie. "Oh." There was a pause. Brendon rubbed his wet eyes. They itched as the tears seeped into his skin. "Tell me more about Ryan."  
  
"I told you about Ryan." Brendon squirmed.   
  
"You told me he's your best friend and this Bert guy embarrassed you in front of him at the party," said Melanie. "I'm guessing it wasn't because Bert told all about your Superman boxers. The Brendon I know could laugh almost everything off."  
  
"Yeah, because he had no other option," muttered Brendon. "Well, it was embarrassing. I don't have to go through it all again, do I?"  
  
"You have a crush on him."  
  
Brendon nearly dropped the phone. He laughed, too big and fake. "On who, Bert? Trust me, that isn't even -"  
  
"Jerk," said Melanie. "Don't think I won't still kick your ass, Beebee. You _know_ I meant Ryan."  
  
"So I can read minds now?"  
  
"It's okay," said Melanie softly. "Bee. It's hard, and Ryan has a girlfriend, but it's _okay_. You'll be okay."  
  
"He hates me." The word wobbled in the middle. "He hates me now. He thinks I - think those things, and ratted out his party. At least before I didn't realise and we were friends. Now it's all gone. It's ruined."  
  
"Bee -"  
  
"Not to mention," Brendon cut across her ruthlessly, "it's a sin. I mean, it's _wrong_ in the eyes of God. Ever since I came here I've been sinning nonstop and I'm going to hell and -"  
  
"Stop it!"   
  
Brendon sucked in a breath.   
  
"You don't really believe that," said Melanie, quieter this time. "I know you. You're like me. You can't help ... questioning. Thinking. I can't believe that _you_ believe you'll be punished for a feeling."  
  
"Not a feeling," said Brendon. "A sin."  
  
"You haven't killed someone," said Melanie, "you haven't hurt anyone, you haven't been cruel or bad. If you're wrong it's because of a - a technicality. That's all."  
  
"Oh, really?" Brendon snorted. "You think Mom and Dad would agree?" Melanie didn't reply. "Yeah. Thought so."  
  
"Not everything Mom and Dad think is true," said Melanie. "People with tattoos aren't marked by the devil - or do you still think that, just because Dad does?"  
  
"He's my father," said Brendon, "and, more importantly, he's paying for this school."  
  
" _You're_ paying for most of it," said Melanie. "It was you who got that scholarship, not Dad. And ... well. If anything happens, you know I have a permanently spare bedroom, right?"  
  
"What about Greg?"  
  
"What about him? He's not the boss of me."  
  
"I thought you were getting married."  
  
"Did you ever hear _me_ say that?" demanded Melanie. "As opposed to, I don't know, Mom and her silly bridge friends? Greg's a nice guy, but I don't know if I want to be tied to him for the rest of my life. I'd like to do things - travel. Go to school."  
  
"You went to BYU."  
  
"I'm thinking a little bigger than Salt Lake," said Melanie. "And so should you. You may not realise it now, but we're the lucky ones, us two. We can see that there's more than they know."  
  
"Oh god, Mel, what am I going to _do_?"  
  
"You're going to survive," said Melanie. "You're going to call me as often as you want, and come out with me on Saturday for a good old fashioned takeout -"  
  
"It's a five-hour drive!" protested Brendon.  
  
"I have gas and two days off," said Melanie. "Also an idiot brother who argues when he's getting a favour."  
  
"I was just thinking of you," said Brendon.  
  
"I know, Bee. I know. And I'm thinking of you. I might even pray, how about that?"  
  
Brendon laughed his first real laugh in twelve hours. "Listen, I've gotta go - the quarters -"  
  
Melanie humphed. "The first thing I'm buying you next week is a cell phone. Honestly, Mom and Dad live in the stone age."  
  
"Bronze, at least." Brendon hesitated. "I love you, Mel."  
  
"Oh, Brendon." Melanie sighed. "Hang in there."  
  
Brendon hung up reluctantly. Every time his mind drifted to last night, it was like a scab breaking. He supposed he'd eventually get over it, but he still had the next fifty years to survive first.  
  
"Hey." Gabe stepped out of an alcove as Brendon stood up from his foetal position to return the handset to its cradle.   
  
"Jeez," said Brendon. "Do you always listen in on people's telephone conversations?"  
  
"Usually I make them put on speaker," said Gabe. "You must be the only person in America without a cell phone."  
  
"You're forgetting the Amish."  
  
"I always forget the Amish," said Gabe, smacking his head.  
  
"What do you want?" Brendon didn't bother to wipe his face. Gabe was the least of his problems. "I didn't do it, whatever, but I'm not going to -"  
  
"I know," said Gabe. Brendon gaped. "Well, I mean I didn't think you did, and now I know. You aren't a sneak, mousie. You're way too transparent. Spies like you get shot in the head."  
  
"Huh," said Brendon. "Was that supposed to be comforting?"  
  
"You doing anything right now?"  
  
"Let's see," said Brendon. "I've already been ostracised by my so-called friends, blamed for something I didn't do, totally embarrassed in front of my - in front of Ryan. I think my quota of crap is all filled up, thanks."  
  
"Good." Gabe grabbed his arm. "That means you're free to hang out with me."  
  
"And I thought my day _couldn't_ get worse," said Brendon. But he let Gabe pull him along, just the same.  
  
+++  
  
Ryland was hunched over in a pool of lamplight when Gabe and Brendon entered their shared study. Brendon made a wild, silent gesture and Gabe just smirked. "Ry!" he yelled. Ryland didn't even flinch.  
  
"It's seven fifty-eight," he said. "What are the rules?"  
  
"Study time between six and eight," said Gabe, with the voice of someone in dreadful pain. "Dude, it's nearly -"  
  
"Six," said Ryland, "and eight. Silence for two more minutes."  
  
Gabe shrugged and waved Brendon to the armchair. He swung his long legs under his own desk. Brendon was surprised to see neat piles of textbooks and a stack of colour-coded ring-binders. Gabe hadn't struck him as the studious type.  
  
The silence was absolute and almost comforting. Brendon felt his tired, sore eyes flutter shut. He only awoke when Gabe prodded him and said, "Did you know you snored?"  
  
"Only when I lie on my back," said Brendon. He knuckled his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep. Wow, is it really nine o'clock?" _Did I say anything in my sleep?_  
  
"We were gonna watch a DVD in our room," said Gabe. "Wanna hang till lights-out?"  
  
"What about -" Brendon peered round Gabe, to where Ryland was clicking out of his laptop.   
  
"He's cool," said Gabe. "You're cool, right?"  
  
"Thirty-seven degrees Celsius," said Ryland. "I wouldn't recommend hanging around."  
  
"Oh." Brendon dropped his head.   
  
"It's Gabe's turn to pick, and he has abysmal taste," continued Ryland. "It's nearly always Scary Movie or American Pie."  
  
"Classics!"  
  
"You need to move on," said Brendon. "There's about forty-five Scary Movies now, you know."  
  
"Finally," said Ryland. "A voice of sense in the wilderness."  
  
"I was going to let Brendon pick, seeing as he's a guest," said Gabe sulkily, "but if you're all just going to _mock_ me -"  
  
"You have fantastic judgment, no one could fault it," said Ryland. He gestured at Brendon. "Quick, Robin, to the DVD box."  
  
The DVD box sat beside Gabe's desk. Brendon balanced his hand on a tattered copy of Gray's Anatomy while he rifled through it. "Awesome!" he said, unearthing a bootleg of Beauty and the Beast.  
  
"Huh?" said Gabe. "Who does that belong to?"  
  
"Vicky," said Ryland. "She's the only one that sells bootlegs."  
  
"Did I buy it from her?" Gabe eyed the jewel case doubtfully.  
  
"Probably," said Ryland cheerfully. "You've done everything else."  
  
"It's awesome," repeated Brendon. "Nearly as good as The Little Mermaid."   
  
"Okay, okay," said Gabe. "I don't think I've ever seen it, so..."  
  
"Seriously? Do you live under a rock?"  
  
Gabe smiled - a real smile, not a smirk or a grin or anything involving his tongue. "Set up," he said to Ryland. "Me and mousie'll go get snacks."  
  
As they walked to the vending machine at the end of the hallway, Brendon asked, "Do you plan to be a doctor?"  
  
"How'd you guess?"  
  
"The book on your desk," said Brendon. "It was that or artist."  
  
"Yeah, I fail at drawing so much," said Gabe. "Even Gee Way saw no hope for me, and he's a fan of Rothko."  
  
"That's pretty -"  
  
"Ridiculous?"   
  
"I was going to say cool, but..." Brendon glanced over Gabe's outfit: yellow jeans and purple sports jacket teamed with white loafers. He also had five or ten gold chains strung around his neck. "Yeah. Also ridiculous."  
  
"A lot of people say that," said Gabe, "which is why I stopped telling them after, oh, five minutes. I know what I want; that's what matters."  
  
"Yeah," said Brendon, and went quiet.   
  
"Now for the really important stuff." Gabe rubbed his hands together. "Chocolate or chips?"  
  
"You mean we have to _choose_?" said Brendon, splaying one hand over the rack of chips and the other across the Snickers.   
  
"You're right - I don't know what I was thinking."  
  
"I'll get these if you want," offered Brendon.  
  
"Halvsies," said Gabe. "I'll get soda."  
  
It was hardly a fair trade, but Brendon wasn't about to explain why. He just nodded.   
  
"Excuse me." Brendon stiffened. It was Ryan. "Are you planning to actually _buy_ something, or should I go away and come back later?"  
  
"Is it uncomfortable?" Gabe wanted to know.  
  
"Is what uncomfortable?" snapped Ryan.  
  
"That stick up your ass," said Gabe. "Is it uncomfortable?"  
  
"Walked into that one," murmured Brendon.   
  
Ryan glared at him. "Oh, fuck off."   
  
"Honestly Ross," said Gabe lazily. "Get a life. Finch sometimes does rounds and we were pretty fucking noisy. It wasn't Brendon."  
  
"Whatever," said Ryan. "I want chips, not a debate."  
  
Brendon stepped back to allow him access. Ryan stabbed out the code and snatched the chips out of the chute. He stalked off, hardly bending his knees. Brendon watched him go - longingly - and chewed his lip.  
  
"Of all the guys in all the world," sighed Gabe, "and you had to fall for him."  
  
"What? I don't like Ryan _Ross_."  
  
"Why, because he has a clone that's less of an ass?" Gabe raised his eyebrows. "That's an idea, actually. If only I knew more about biogenetic engineering ... but who are you kidding? It's written all over your face. And other places too, probably." He leered.  
  
"I have nothing written on me anywhere," said Brendon firmly. He started jabbing in numbers on the keypad.   
  
"The only thing that's funny," continued Gabe, "is that Ross didn't click sooner. I'm sure you've noticed that all the planets orbit around him and his giant ego."  
  
"I don't like Ryan, okay?"   
  
"Whatever you say, Romeo," said Gabe. Half a dozen Cokes rattled out of the next vending machine. Brendon sucked on his lower lip again, thoughts boiling and cresting against the black inside.  
  
"Hey," he said slowly, "would you - would you pass me one of those?"  
  
"Sure." Gabe tossed a can at Brendon. It was smooth and freezing between his palms. There was only a tiny sound when Brendon popped the tab; Gabe didn't even turn his head.  
  
Brendon closed his eyes and drank.  
  
+++  
  
When Brendon stopped going to Sunday services, Mr Waterstone came to find him. It was two weeks before this happened. In the meantime, Brendon had drunk his body weight in soda, smoked up with Bert - who gave him a gram of pot as an apology - and made out with Gabe one night, after his first can of beer and the other five that followed it. No one was speaking to him except Gabe and Ryland. Greta still said hello and Vicky grunted sometimes, but it was no replacement for the camaraderie he'd won and lost so easily.  
  
Brendon was in the middle of doing his homework when Mr Waterstone knocked. He wasn't quite so far gone as to abandon the only thing that was keeping him in the school in the first place. In the end, Brendon would take Ryan's cold war over Chuck Lawrence's fists any day.  
  
Mr Waterstone invited him to have some tea in his office. Brendon couldn't think of a reason to refuse, so he stood up from trigonometry and followed the chaplain. At the beginning, the conversation was of the innocuous, 'How's your life going?' type. Then Mr Waterstone laid out his first strike.  
  
"None of the students has been so assiduous as you in attending Sunday service," said Mr Waterstone. "You never missed one until two weeks ago. I was just wondering if there's anything on your mind."  
  
"I'm in a state of sin," said Brendon baldly. "I kissed another guy. God tends to frown on that sort of thing."  
  
"Ah," said Mr Waterstone.  
  
"And what's more," said Brendon recklessly, "I liked it. I drank soda, and beer, and I liked them too. In fact, I liked them more than I liked anything when I was doing exactly what God wanted me to."  
  
"I'm not sure you can make that claim," said Mr Waterstone. "To know what God is thinking or what he intends for you. He may have sent this trial to test you."  
  
"It's not a trial." Brendon stared angrily at the old man, who was steepling his fingers. "It's my life. It's how I feel."  
  
"You truly believe that?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Then how can you tell that it's not what God wants, too?"  
  
"I don't know - maybe because the Bible was pretty clear on where it stood on homosexuality?"  
  
"It's been two thousand years since the Bible was written," said Mr Waterstone. "I think even God can factor in a few social shifts here and there. Jesus wanted us to love our neighbour as ourselves. That neighbour might have been a sinner in a thousand ways, but we were to forgive them seventy times seven. No matter what, Jesus forgives."  
  
"Yes, but that implies that we're always doing wrong."  
  
Mr Waterstone smiled. "Aren't we? Every day I think unkind thoughts - about my family, my co-workers, even the students here. Every day I say things I wish I hadn't. Every day I'm glad that Jesus is capable of forgiving everything I can't."  
  
"I don't -" Brendon cleared his throat and started again. "I don't think I want to believe in a God who doesn't accept me for what I am."  
  
"I think you're a little confused," said Mr Waterstone. "Your church - and many other churches - don't accept ways of life that are not their own." He leaned forward. "But the church is not God. God is the church. I'm sure God, in his infinite wisdom, is able to accept _anything_."  
  
"But where does that leave me?" asked Brendon. "My parents have a pretty rock-hard version of what God does and doesn't like."  
  
"Yes," said Mr Waterstone, "most people's gods are based on themselves." He sighed. "Put it this way: would God have given us the capacity to question, if he didn't think he could answer?"  
  
"I hope not," said Brendon. "But I'm still not coming back to Sunday services."  
  
"I was concerned for you, not your attendance." The kettle whistled. "And now. Tea. It cures ninety percent of ills, you know."  
  
"Right," said Brendon sceptically, but he didn't refuse when Mr Waterstone offered him a packet of teabags to take with him.  
  
The next week, he went back to Sunday service.  
  
+++  
  
"Remember when we declared a moratorium on speaking of a certain person called Ryan Ross -"  
  
"So why are we speaking of him?" murmured Brendon. He slashed through another line in Gabe's history essay. Gabe was a whiz at science and math, but he couldn't put a sentence together to save his life. Also, he had a tendency to try to bring cobras into everything. "Dude, I'm pretty sure there were no snakes at Gettysburg."  
  
"Rattlesnakes are native to Pennsylvania," said Gabe.  
  
"No snakes that had any _historical impact_ , I mean." Brendon sighed. "You just do this to mess with Mr Navarro's head, don't you?"  
  
"Just a little," said Gabe, "but listen -"  
  
Ryland backed into the room, loaded down with two laptops. "Bloody Ross," he panted. "I have to download a fucking vid for his fucking party - honestly, you'd think someone was getting married -"  
  
"Ryan is having a party," finished Gabe. "He invited you."  
  
"I know." Brendon fiddled with his pen. "He texted me last night."  
  
Gabe pinned him with a stare. Brendon very assiduously crossed out a reference to 'Washington's pet snake, Nagini.' "So you're back on speaking terms again?" asked Gabe.  
  
"Texting terms," Brendon corrected him.   
  
"So we're going?"  
  
"You're going and I guess I will too," said Brendon. "If that's what you mean."  
  
"Excellent." Gabe stretched his arms, exposing his tanned belly. Brendon _liked_ the view, but it was nothing to the feeling he'd got when he saw Ryan's name under the message last night. "I suppose you've heard that Ryan and Keltie broke up?"  
  
"What?" exclaimed Brendon. His fingers loosened on the pen, which streaked across the page and rolled to the floor. Half the pages went with it while Brendon stared at Gabe. He recollected himself a minute later, but it was too late. Gabe smirked widely but, amazingly, didn't say anything.  
  
"Bound to happen," said Ryland. "They've been fighting since Christmas - over the stupidest things, too. I thought it was just to spice things up, you know how anger is an aphrodisiac -"  
  
"Yeah, you can stop right there." Gabe winced. "If that's true, Vicky should want in my pants _so bad_. And we all know how she feels about me."  
  
Ryland stared at Gabe in exasperation and shook his head. "You're so dumb. You know that, right?"  
  
"Yeah," said Gabe. "What's this vid about, then?"  
  
"The wildlife of the Arctic," said Ryland.  
  
"You're joking," said Gabe flatly.  
  
"I wish I was," said Ryland.  
  
"Hey, I've gotta go," murmured Brendon. He stood up, shedding the rest of Gabe's essay. The other two didn't notice him leave.  
  
Bert was in their room, actually studying. Brendon took a closer look and realised Bert was drawing naked women in the margins of his sociology book. Still, the intention was there.  
  
"Hey, B-two," said Bert. "Fiero made you something."  
  
"Oh no," said Brendon.  
  
"Don't be like that," said Bert. "Gee helped."  
  
"Oh no," said Brendon.  
  
"It's on the bed," said Bert. "They thought you could wear it to the Ice Queen's party."  
  
"How did you know -"  
  
"You left your phone on your desk," said Bert. "You got another message from Ross, by the way. Gee says the smiley face is a very good sign."  
  
Brendon didn't bother even trying to form a reply for that. He snatched up his phone and scrolled through the messages. There was an open one from Ryan, right above the one Brendon had read twenty times last night, before falling asleep on top of his phone and waking up with the keypad imprinted on his face.  
  
 _hey bden just 2 remind u my partys on 2nite u never replied b4 but i hope ur comin :)_  
  
"You gonna text him back?" Bert eyed him keenly, his reproduction of the Kama Sutra forgotten. "Put him out of his misery?"  
  
Brendon carefully closed the phone. "No," he said, thoughtfully. "I don't think I'll bother."  
  
"Playing it mean, huh?"  
  
"Sort of." Brendon picked up the t-shirt on his bed - or what remained of it. Brendon had a stock of plain white Ts supplied by his mother, which he mainly used as pyjamas or under his school shirt when it was cold. There was very little white left on this one.  
  
"What exactly ... is this?" he asked Bert.  
  
"In the middle, that's a broken heart," said Bert. "It's being squeezed to death by the robot spider. Gee says that's a metaphor. And the other thing is a unicorn with bat's wings, which was Fiero's idea. They are the ultimate steed for a master of darkness."  
  
"Right." Brendon rolled the word around in his mouth. "And the little blobs of purple?"  
  
"They're little blobs of purple," said Bert. "Gee said it was your favourite colour."  
  
"That was very kind of them," said Brendon. "I'm sure they _meant_ well."  
  
"Gee's real sorry about that other party," said Bert. "It was his idea to go. Apparently I said something fucked-up to the Ice Queen? I don't remember. I didn't mean to. You're all right, you know. For a white guy."  
  
Brendon stared at him. Bert stared back, his face pastier than the wall. "O- _kay_ ," said Brendon.  
  
"You gonna wear it?"  
  
"Yeah, why not." Brendon folded the t-shirt over his pillow and picked up a towel. "I'm going to have a shower first."  
  
"Good idea," said Bert. "I don't think the fabric paint is totally dry."  
  
With that cheering thought, Brendon padded down the hall to the shower block. It had a row of twenty cubicles. They were all empty, and Brendon picked the one nearest the door. He might be gay, but he still didn't want to walk around half-naked for longer than he had to.  
  
The showers took a while to build up steam, so Brendon turned on the water before he stripped off his sweatpants and t-shirt. The water pounded against the tiled floor, drowning out every other sound.   
  
Brendon stepped into the spray face-first, dousing his hair and shuddering at the shocking heat. He hadn't bothered to draw the curtain separating the shower from the changing area, so when he turned around to get soap he got a full-length view of Ryan Ross lounging against the wall.   
  
Brendon's shout earned him a mouthful of water. He spat it out and fumbled for the curtain, yanking it across his lower half. Ryan's eyes followed the movement and he smirked.  
  
"A bit late for that," he said. Brendon just stared. He couldn't even speak, although his tongue curled in his mouth, still tasting the metallic shower spray.   
  
"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" said Ryan, when Brendon continued to stare at him silently.  
  
"I just assumed you'd lost your mind," said Brendon. "Because I'm, you know, showering. _Naked_."  
  
"That part I noticed," said Ryan. "Nice ass, by the way."  
  
Brendon flushed to the roots of his hair. "Seriously, what the -"  
  
"Brent," said Ryan. "It was Brent who called Finch. About the party. He was always complaining about them because he wanted to sleep or study or, I don't know, jerk off. We've switched out, anyway. I'm sharing with Jon now."  
  
"That's nice," said Brendon. He wanted Ryan to _go_.  
  
"I wasn't angry at you about the party anyway," said Ryan. "It was just a convenient excuse. Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"Tell you what?" Brendon's fingers clutched the curtain tightly. Ryan was prowling forward, focused and intent and _wow_ , hot. Brendon subtly angled his body _away_ from the material.   
  
"That you liked me," said Ryan softly.  
  
"Yeah, because I usually make friends with people I hate. Hello? It was _implied_ -"  
  
"No," said Ryan. " _Like_ me like me. 'Kiss me now' like me. The way ... the way I like you."  
  
"You don't like me - you like Keltie."  
  
"I liked Keltie," countered Ryan. "I liked you too - I like you more. She wasn't stupid. She saw it before I did. The way I always hung out with you, laughed at you - couldn't take my eyes off you." Ryan was really close now - he put out a hand and touched the curtain, fingers brushing Brendon's. "I get that you're Mormon and things are ... different for you. Like, that was fine. But you played spin the bottle and you did seven minutes with me and when you came out you looked fucking _freaked_. Which wasn't hugely flattering, I have to say. Then you ran off and next thing Finch is screaming the place down. She's got a really loud voice for an old lady," he added reflectively. "Anyway. We all thought you'd gone fundamentalist on us. Me especially, for - corrupting you, or something."  
  
"Why didn't you just _ask_ me?" said Brendon. "It was really - it was really _shit_ for me after the party."  
  
Ryan ducked his head and mumbled, "We don't have that many gay couples here, you know."  
  
"Yeah, right." Brendon snorted derisively.  
  
"It's true! Sure, we all make out and Pete professes his undying love for Patrick once a month - but Patrick's not with him, Ashlee is." Ryan stared right into Brendon's eyes, making it impossible for him to look away. "I was breaking new ground, basically, and with someone who thought it was a _sin_. I was - fucking embarrassed, okay? I thought I'd come on to you and you were rejecting me and that wasn't fun -"  
  
"No," breathed Brendon, "that's what _I_ thought."  
  
Ryan rubbed his mouth, looking rueful. "I didn't exactly handle the situation well, I know. Gabe had to come give me a talking-to. Can you imagine? Gabe, of all people?"  
  
"Actually," said Brendon, "I kind of can."   
  
Ryan smiled then, a full-blown beautiful smile. Brendon was so entranced he let Ryan pull his fingers off the curtain, let Ryan push him back into the shower. It was only when Ryan followed that he uttered a faint protest. "You're still dressed!"  
  
"Yeah," said Ryan. He braced his hands on the shower wall beside Brendon's head, leaned in, and kissed him.  
  
At first Brendon couldn't even move. Ryan's mouth moved over his, whisper-light, up towards his ear and back down again. Brendon felt water purling between his bare toes. His eyes were still wide open.  
  
Ryan laughed, a warm puff against Brendon's lips. He dropped a hand to the sharp curve of Brendon's hip, rubbing soft circles with just a hint of nailbite. Brendon whimpered. "I'm -"  
  
"I know," said Ryan. He angled his head and kissed Brendon's neck, sucking on the skin above his collarbone. Brendon's hands flew up to clutch Ryan's back, squeezing the sodden material. Ryan's hair was silkywet against the underside of Brendon's chin. His fingernail scraped an uneven line from Brendon's hipbone to the crinkly line of hair, while he tongued the curve of Brendon's throat. Brendon cried out, his hips bucking up involuntarily.  
  
"Ryan," he breathed.  
  
Ryan stilled. "Come to my party tonight."  
  
"What?" Brendon arched his neck, trying to find Ryan's mouth again. But Ryan was moving away, grabbing Brendon's hands as he reached out and kissing the knuckles.  
  
"Come to my party," said Ryan. "You never texted me back to say you would."  
  
"As if," gasped Brendon, "as if I wouldn't."  
  
"Good." Ryan flashed him that _smile_ again, the one that made Brendon's insides melt and twist. "See you there." He slipped out before Brendon could do anything.   
  
Brendon slumped against the wall. His whole body was thrumming, stretching out and tingling. He put a hand to his neck, brushing over the tender area Ryan had left.  
  
After that, it didn't take long.  
  
+++  
  
Everyone greeted Brendon at the party. Most people, like Spencer, seemed to have glossed over the part where he was public enemy number one for a month. Only Greta was uncomfortable: she came up to apologise to Brendon for doubting him. Brendon waved her off, but in his heart he was grateful.  
  
Ryan was supervising Ryland while he set up the laptop. This was apparently serious business, involving low-voiced discussion and red faces. Ryan was wearing a clinging t-shirt and a yellow flower in his hair. He didn't do anything more than wave at Brendon and send him a secretive smile, but it was enough to make Brendon float across to the drinks table.   
  
"Do you _want_ me to kill you?" Vicky demanded of Gabe as Brendon approached. Gabe looked hunted.  
  
"I was just offering you a drink -"  
  
"I can get it myself," snapped Vicky, reaching around Gabe to prove it. Gabe gazed down at her with a strange expression.  
  
"You know what," said Gabe, "you know what? You can. I'm _done_." He strode off, medallions clinking. Vicky stared after him.  
  
"Done with what?" she asked the air in general.  
  
Brendon didn't feel entirely qualified to answer, but - "Done with trying to win you," he said.   
  
"He was trying to win me?" said Vicky. "What am I, a prize?"  
  
Brendon couldn't stop the smile. "Yeah," he said, "a prize to be won. With elephants and flying carpets and bootleg DVDs."  
  
"What are you talking about?" said Vicky, belligerently - but a faint blush tinged her cheeks.   
  
"You're a smart girl," said Brendon, patting her on the shoulder. "You'll figure it out."  
  
"What, like you and Ross?" sneered Vicky.  
  
"Pretty much like that," said Brendon. He picked up a can of Red Bull and walked off. He passed Keltie, sitting on the armchair with her arms around Greta. Brendon didn't think much of it till Keltie kissed the back of Greta's neck and tucked a curl behind her ear.  
  
"Wow," said Brendon, to no one in particular.   
  
"I know," said Ryan. Brendon jumped, blushed and smiled, in that order. "It's great, huh?"  
  
"A little unexpected," said Brendon.  
  
"Oh, I don't know," said Ryan, with a funny little quirk of the lips. "Hey, I like your shirt. It's very ... festive. Here, I got you something." He produced a yellow carnation, identical to his own, and threaded it behind Brendon's ears. Brendon shivered at the touch, and Ryan didn't drop his hand - just pressed it to Brendon's jaw. "You liked my last one so much."  
  
"I keep it under my pillow," said Brendon.   
  
"You are such a g-"  
  
" _Don't_ say it," warned Vicky, slapping the back of Ryan's head in passing.  
  
"Ow!"  
  
"Aw," said Brendon, "will I kiss it better?"  
  
"I've got a better idea." Ryan's eyes went dark. In a swift sure motion, he put a hand on Brendon's spine and pulled him close. He tipped Brendon back and cradled his neck before dropping his head to kiss him, mouth firm and insistent. Brendon opened his lips and Ryan slipped his tongue inside Brendon's mouth, teasing and light. Brendon's eyes sunk shut and his arms came up around Ryan's neck as Ryan kissed him like Brendon had the last breath of air in the world. He didn't realise people were cheering till Ryan gently pulled him upright.  
  
"I've been inspired," yelled Pete. "Where's Patrick?"  
  
"He went on a double date with Mikeyway, remember?" said Ashlee.  
  
"It's a pity you're not a boy," said Pete. "It would have been so _symbolic._ "  
  
"That's not what you said last night," said Ashlee, dragging him in for a kiss. Pete didn't come up for a while.  
  
" _If_ we could get started," said Ryland stridently. "I spent like, a fucking hour on this, you're all going to watch it whether you like it or not."  
  
"C'mon," whispered Ryan. He tugged Brendon down into a heap atop some throw cushions. Brendon ended up between Ryan's long legs, cuddled close. Ryan's tongue flicked Brendon's ear before he said, "I thought you'd like this."  
  
Brendon settled back against Ryan's chest, feeling so light and heady he thought he might dissolve. Only Ryan's arms kept him anchored, his hands touching Brendon's arm, leg, chin, hair as if he couldn't get enough.  
  
Ryland switched off the lights, filling the room with the blue glow of the laptop screen. A frozen tundra appeared, and a deep, mournful voice began narrating.  
  
"Some breeds of penguin," it said lugubriously, "mate for life..."  
  
+++  
  
The first few times they just lay there, Ryan's fingers plucking at his shirt, only their mouths and Ryan's fingers touching, slipping through Brendon's buttonholes. The sound of Jon's 'sex music' thumped through the wall, even though the noises they made were soft, mostly sighs. Brendon was pretty proud of himself for not being louder, because he felt his heart thumping so hard whenever Ryan even _looked_ at him that people in England could have heard it.  
  
But Ryan got bored quickly. Well - not _bored_ , but ... pushy. Brendon was happy with the kissing and the shifting fabric between them. He was still ashamed of his body's reaction to all of it, even though Ryan was very obviously having the same one. After a while, he'd rub up against Brendon and slide his thigh across Brendon's hip to make it obvious. The feel of him - hard - where Brendon was hard, always turned him breathless and a little trapped. He'd push Ryan back a little and that was the end of the makeout session.   
  
He could tell Ryan was getting annoyed. The way he flopped back and squeezed himself between the legs - and _God_ , the sight of it made Brendon flush from his ears to the tips of his toes - and groaned was a hint. The scowls and the pointed way he banged the bathroom door were another clue. Brendon just ... concentrated, mostly, and that dealt with the problem. Once or twice, though, he'd put his ear to the bathroom door. Ryan sounded like he was in pain, which shouldn't have been such a turn on - and wasn't, except for the wet slippery noises and the sighs of 'Brendon' that overlaid it. Both times, Brendon had to wait for Ryan to finish and slip into the bathroom, red-faced, when he came out. There was just no way he could walk down the hallway as he was.   
  
The second time was when it all came to a head. So to speak.  
  
Ryan was waiting outside the door when Brendon opened it - quietly, as if that would make the last five minutes politer. Brendon jumped. Ryan rolled his eyes and took Brendon's arm, guiding him back to the bed.  
  
"But we just -" Brendon started, and stopped.   
  
"Made out and came," said Ryan. "I'd noticed. The point is that _both_ of those are supposed to be partnered activities."  
  
Brendon blushed. He stared at his knees. In his peripheral vision, Ryan sighed.   
  
"I get if you're nervous -"  
  
"I'm not nervous!" said Brendon, on reflex.  
  
"Oh really?" said Ryan. "Take your shirt off, then."  
  
"How does that - no."  
  
"Brendon." Ryan's voice was low and sweet, with just a hint of honeyed threat. "I want to see you naked. Again."  
  
Brendon jumped, a bolt of _fearnoplease_ arrowing through him. Ryan's hand came up around his back, stroking the skin under his ear while Ryan's lips dryly brushed the curve of his neck.   
  
"Can't we just -" Brendon swallowed, feeling Ryan's mouth move against his skin as he did so. "- take things slow?"  
  
Ryan pushed Brendon back against the bed - a quick, unexpected move - and pinned his shoulders, stopping the bounce. "You only take things slow if you're nervous," he said. "You said you weren't nervous, _Brendon_." Brendon almost whimpered at the way Ryan twisted his name - like a promise, like a curse. "And _fuck_ , I could hear you in there." He sucked on Brendon's jaw and this time Brendon did whimper. Ryan's breath burned on the shell of his ear. "You came, like. Twice. Didn't you?"  
  
Brendon froze. Ryan could feel that too, with his hands on Brendon's shoulders just this side of too-tight. He winced when he nodded, and knew he was blushing.  
  
All at once Ryan released him. Brendon stared up at him as Ryan shoved up against the wall and pushed his hair out of his eyes.   
  
"Hey." Brendon put a tentative hand on Ryan's knee. "Are you mad?"  
  
"Yeah," said Ryan, but before the thump of betrayal fell he added, "at myself, mostly. Look, I shouldn't be pushing you. It's just, you're so - there. You. God." He crunched his fingers, thin white tendons standing out on the back of his hand. "Maybe we should stop this for a while. Till you're ready."  
  
"No," said Brendon. It came out quiet, forceless, and he was sure Ryan didn't hear him because he dropped his head to his knees and shook it.   
  
Brendon sat up. His shirt gaped where Ryan had got three buttons open. He should go back to his room and finish his homework. He should only kiss Ryan when other people were around to make it safe. He should stop all this sinfulness and repent.  
  
His hands went to the fourth button and pushed it out of the hole.  
  
His hair fell in his eyes as he looked down, watching almost disconnectedly as his hands slowly undid the shirt all the way down. He was on the last button when Ryan looked up and their eyes met.  
  
"What -" said Ryan, but Brendon paused, took a deep breath and shrugged off the shirt entirely. Ryan didn't say anything while Brendon stood up and awkwardly untied his shoes, peeled off his socks and fumbled with his belt, but he stared. His eyes dropped with Brendon's pants as they puddled on the floor and flew back up to where Brendon's thumbs were hooked in his boxers. His already damp and tented boxers, and Brendon looked at the ceiling as if it would give him the last bit of courage he needed.  
  
"If you," Ryan cleared his throat, but his voice still came out muddy, "I won't. I won't be able to stop. So."  
  
Brendon nodded, once, and pushed down his boxers. He didn't mean to do it as slow as he did - like a tease - but his cock was still sensitive, and they clung to his ass, and then they got caught on his ankle and Brendon had to spend long, embarrassing seconds peeling them off. He crossed his arms across his chest and dared a look at Ryan. He instantly wished he hadn't.  
  
Ryan was leaning on his elbows, fists clenched. His eyes were bottomless holes drinking Brendon in. The warm shiver that goose pebbled his skin wasn't entirely from anxiety.  
  
"Can you -" Ryan's voice was strangely hollow, as if he were shouting from a long way away. "- can you - turn around?"  
  
Brendon was okay with that, if it meant not having to look at Ryan and feel like he was seconds from being eaten alive. He wanted Ryan, he understood that - liked being with him, kissing him, thought about touching him - but always in a vague, fuzzy way. He didn't want Ryan like Ryan wanted Brendon. It was an exhilarating, terrifying thought.  
  
"Ryan?"  
  
"Shh, it's okay." Ryan's eyes were too bright as he put his arms around Brendon. It was weird to feel clothes touching him when he was actually naked. Ryan buried his face in Brendon's shoulder, biting a little. One of his hands slipped down to squeeze Brendon's ass and - Brendon liked it. He liked it a lot.  
  
Ryan stepped back. He looked at Brendon, up and down, a little smirk at the side of his lips. Brendon felt an insane urge to cover his erection. One of his hands twitched, but Ryan caught it.  
  
"Your cock," he said. "I'm gonna suck it now, okay?"  
  
"What?" said Brendon, mind reeling, but Ryan wasn't listening. He slid to his knees - Brendon could hear the bones click - and pressed his cheek against the ridge of Brendon's hip. His nail gently scratched the underside of Brendon's cock. Brendon swallowed a shout. He stared down at Ryan's head, dark bangs flopping over his eyes as he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue - and Brendon had thought he couldn't _get_ harder - and delicately closed his mouth around the head of Brendon's cock.   
  
If he hadn't come twice already in the last half-hour, Brendon would have come right then, down Ryan's throat. He could feel Ryan's hands, both of them wrapped around the base of his cock as he guided it into further into his mouth. But all he could concentrate on was the roughness of Ryan's tongue pushing against the rim, the fleshy softness of his cheek and little bumps of teeth. He scrabbled for support, knocking half the contents of Jon's desk to the floor before he found the edge and grabbed on. His hips jolted up and Ryan made a surprised noise. It translated as a hum and a hard flick of his tongue, and Brendon's eyes rolled up.  
  
He pushed a shaking hand into Ryan's hair. He couldn't even think, let alone speak; all that came out were hitching gasps, but Ryan got the message. He moved his head back, and Brendon's cock slipped past his lips with a soft pop. The air tickled the damp skin, making Brendon moan. Then Ryan's warm tongue was back, licking hurried stripes from base to tip before he closed his fist and pumped it _hard_. Brendon's back arched as he came, shooting over Ryan's shoulder on to -  
  
"Jon's bed," said Brendon, huskily. "Shit."  
  
"He's high, he won't notice." Ryan spoke too fast, panting. He stood up and smirked. "So?"  
  
"You put it in your mouth." Brendon's eyes fluttered closed as his cock twitched, still very happy about that. "God. That was. God. The best thing _ever_."  
  
Ryan gently pushed him back towards the bed, crowding him till he sat down. "Lie back," he commanded. "Like. Have a nap or something. You look completely wrecked."  
  
"You put it in your mouth," Brendon reminded him.  
  
"I was there," said Ryan. He knelt up on the bed to get over Brendon's sprawling legs, which was when Brendon realised - remembered - that Ryan was hard too. He sat up.  
  
"But you -"  
  
"Lie _down_." Ryan gave him a little shove. "This one's on me."   
  
Brendon lay back. Ryan was still kneeling over him. As Brendon watched, Ryan shook his hair out of his eyes and undid his pants. He shoved them down impatiently, and not very far - just enough to free his own cock from his boxers. Brendon sat up again, interest warring with trepidation and winning this time. Ryan gave him a look. Brendon lay down.  
  
"I kind of want to touch it," he whispered.  
  
"Good," gritted Ryan. The tips of his fingers smeared precome around the head. "Now you know how I feel." He spat in his hand and started jerking off - hard, barely slick thrusts through the circle of his fingers. Brendon really wanted to help, but he was also really liking the show. Ryan's other hand was braced against the wall and he bit his lip, running it through his teeth. It only took a few seconds before he came.  
  
All over Brendon's chest.  
  
"So when you said this one's on me," said Brendon, "you meant _on_ me."  
  
"Shut up." Ryan leaned across him, not seeming to care that he was messing up his shirt. (And he was still fully dressed, how was that fair?) He grabbed a handful of tissues and cleaned off Brendon, first, before himself.  
  
He pulled a blanket over both of them. Sweat started to cool on Brendon's skin, making it itchy and tight. He wouldn't have moved for the world.   
  
"Can I come in yet?" called Jon. Brendon glanced guiltily at his duvet.  
  
"Five more minutes," called Ryan, scratching patterns around Brendon's bellybutton. He squirmed, loving it.   
  
"Okay, dude."  
  
They were spooning under the blanket, and the only part of Ryan that was naked - aside from his tickling hands - was his cock, nudging slightly at Brendon's ass with the movement of Ryan's hips. Brendon curved a hand around Ryan's sharp bone to pull him closer, sighing happily when the friction increased.  
  
"Guess what?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"One day," Ryan leaned in to kiss his throat, "I'm going to fuck you so hard. And you're going to _love_ it."  
  
Brendon's stomach clenched in pure, fearful anticipation. He thought he probably would.  
  
"But not today," he whispered.  
  
"No." Ryan kissed his neck a bit more before adding, thoughtfully, "Even Jon might notice that."  
  
+++  
  
"- and she called the cat," Mrs Urie's voice dropped, "a d-e-v-i-l. And honestly, I'm inclined to agree. It kept Moses pinned up in his house for three hours yesterday! I couldn't get him out for anything. And you should see the size of the cat - I've seen bigger newborn kittens. Mrs Zuckerman said -"  
  
"Mom," said Brendon, "I love you."  
  
"Oh." Mrs Urie sounded surprised. "Well, I love you too, honey. What brought that on?"  
  
"Just thought it needed saying," said Brendon. "Because I do. No matter what."  
  
"That's so sweet," said Mrs Urie. "I can't wait to see you. And Ryan and Spencer and Gabe are all coming to visit this summer? You did ask them?"  
  
"Yeah, it'll be great," said Brendon. "Especially for Ryan. His dad isn't around much."  
  
"That poor boy," sighed Mrs Urie. Brendon didn't think she'd say that if she'd seen Ryan last night, naked and sweaty with his mouth around her son's cock. But that was one of the things Brendon had decided not to think about for the time being. God would show him the answer eventually. "It's so nice that he goes to Sunday service with you now. Speaking of school friends, I heard the strangest thing about that Charles Lawrence the other day."  
  
"Chuck?" said Brendon. "He wasn't my _friend_ , Mom."  
  
A clattering noise came from the other end. Mrs Urie was probably cooking. "Yes, that's the one," she said, clearly not having heard a word. "One of the mothers was around collecting donations for the school gym - they're buying a new ball machine, whatever that is. I invited her in for coffee and his name came up. You'll never guess what happened to him."  
  
"He fell in a hole and died?" said Brendon hopefully.  
  
"Worse," said Mrs Urie. "He's become a _gay_."  
  
"Oh, wow," said Brendon in a strangled voice. "That explains _so much_."  
  
"Apparently he told everyone after he was dropped from the football team. He's 'dating' the quarterback." Brendon could hear the inverted commas clang around the word. "What do you think of that?"  
  
"I'm not sure," said Brendon. "Listen, Mom, I've got to go."  
  
"All right, dear," said Mrs Urie. "Take care of yourself. We'll see you next week!"  
  
Ryan met Brendon at the door of his room. Ryan and Gee were fighting over the t-shirts again. Ryan wanted screenprinted fire-lilies. Gee wanted screenprinted zombies. At least they weren't arguing about the screenprinting part anymore.  
  
Ryan greeted Brendon with a kiss, filthy and lovely and slow. Brendon was hard and panting by the end of it, but for once he didn't feel like dragging Ryan to the first quiet corner and fucking his mouth.   
  
"Hey." Ryan smoothed a lock of hair behind Brendon's ear. "Are you okay? Did your mom say something?"  
  
"Kind of." Brendon looked into the bedroom. It was washed with sunlight, bouncing off Gee's greasy hair, Bert's inevitable joint, Gabe's yellow jeans and dirty sneakers on Brendon's pillow, Spencer's earnest daubing on one of the last white t-shirts. "Did I ever tell you about my last school?"  
  
"Not much," said Ryan. "Why, was it - bad?"  
  
Brendon took Ryan's hand and lead him to the bed, swatting Gabe out of the way. Ryan sat down and let Brendon nestle into his shoulder as he yelled, "No, I'm telling you, flowers! No zombies!"  
  
"They could have bouquets," said Gee. "Of skeletal roses! A zombie wedding!"  
  
"God help me," groaned Ryan, sinking back. Brendon kissed his jaw and wound one of Ryan's curls around his finger.  
  
"Once upon a time," he whispered, as Ryan looked up at him with joy and laughter and annoyance all mingled in his face. "There was a boy called Chuck..."


End file.
